{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11391/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11391","id":"gutenberg_11391","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11391","summary":null,"tags":["Art","Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics"],"text":"Lectures on Art\n\nBy\n\nWashington Allston\n\nEdited by Richard Henry Dana, Jr.\n\nMDCCCL.\n\n\n\n\nPreface by the Editor.\n\n\n\nUpon the death of Mr. Allston, it was determined, by those who had\ncharge of his papers, to prepare his biography and correspondence, and\npublish them with his writings in prose and verse; a work which would\nhave occupied two volumes of about the same size with the present. A\ndelay has unfortunately occurred in the preparation of the biography\nand correspondence; and, as there have been frequent calls for a\npublication of his poems, and of the Lectures on Art he is known to\nhave written, it has been thought best to give them to the public in\nthe present form, without awaiting the completion of the whole\ndesign. It may be understood, however, that, when the biography\nand correspondence are published, it will be in a volume precisely\ncorresponding with the present, so as to carry out the original\ndesign.\n\nI will not anticipate the duty of the biographer by an extended notice\nof the life of Mr. Allston; but it may be interesting to some readers\nto know the outline of his life, and the different circumstances under\nwhich the several pieces in this volume were written.\n\nWASHINGTON ALLSTON was born at Charleston, in South Carolina, on the\n5th of November, 1779, of a family distinguished in the history of\nthat State and of the country, being a branch of a family of the\nbaronet rank in the titled commonalty of England. Like most young\nmen of the South in his position at that period, he was sent to New\nEngland to receive his school and college education. His school days\nwere passed at Newport, in Rhode Island, under the charge of Mr.\nRobert Rogers. He entered Harvard College in 1796, and graduated in\n1800. While at school and college, he developed in a marked manner\na love of nature, music, poetry, and painting. Endowed with senses\ncapable of the nicest perceptions, and with a mental and moral\nconstitution which tended always, with the certainty of a physical\nlaw, to the beautiful, the pure, and the sublime, he led what many\nmight call an ideal life. Yet was he far from being a recluse, or from\nbeing disposed to an excess of introversion. On the contrary, he was\na popular, high-spirited youth, almost passionately fond of society,\nmaintaining an unusual number of warm friendships, and unsurpassed by\nany of the young men of his day in adaptedness to the elegancies and\ncourtesies of the more refined portions of the moving world. Romances\nof love, knighthood, and heroic deeds, tales of banditti, and stories\nof supernatural beings, were his chief delight in his early days. Yet\nhis classical attainments were considerable, and, as a scholar in the\nliterature of his own language, his reputation was early established.\nHe delivered a poem on taking his degree, which was much admired in\nits day.\n\nOn leaving college, he returned to South Carolina. Having determined\nto devote his life to the fine arts, he sold, hastily and at a\nsacrifice, his share of a considerable patrimonial estate, and\nembarked for London in the autumn of 1801. Immediately upon his\narrival, he became a student of the Royal Academy, of which his\ncountryman, West, was President, with whom he formed an intimate and\nlasting friendship. After three years spent in England, and a shorter\nstay at Paris, he went to Italy, where he spent four years devoted\nexclusively to the study of his art. At Rome began his intimacy with\nColeridge. Among the many subsequent expressions of his feeling toward\nthis great man, none, perhaps, is more striking than the following\nextract from one of his letters:--\"To no other man do I owe so much,\nintellectually, as to Mr. Coleridge, with whom I became acquainted\nin Rome, and who has honored me with his friendship for more than\nfive-and-twenty years. He used to call Rome the silent city; but I\nnever could think of it as such while with him; for, meet him when and\nwhere I would, the fountain of his mind was never dry, but, like the\nfar-reaching aqueducts that once supplied this mistress of the world,\nits living stream seemed specially to flow for every classic ruin over\nwhich we wandered. And when I recall some of our walks under the pines\nof the Villa Borghese, I am almost tempted to dream that I have once\nlistened to Plato in the groves of the Academy.\" Readers of Coleridge\nknow in what estimation he held the qualities and the friendship of\nMr. Allston. Beside Coleridge and West, he numbered among his friends\nin England, Wordsworth, Southey, Lamb, Sir George Beaumont, Reynolds,\nand Fuseli.\n\nIn 1809, Mr. Allston returned to America, and remained two years\nin Boston, his adopted home, and there married the sister of Dr.\nChanning. In 1811, he went again to England, where his reputation as\nan artist had been completely established. Before his departure, he\ndelivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge.\nDuring a severe illness, he removed from London to Clifton, at which\nplace he wrote \"The Sylphs of the Seasons.\" In 1813, he made his\nfirst, and, with the exception of \"Monaldi,\" twenty-eight years\nafterwards, his only publication. This was a small volume, entitled\n\"The Sylphs of the Seasons, and other Poems,\" published in London;\nand, during the same year, republished in Boston under the direction\nof his friends, Professor Willard of Cambridge and Mr. Edmund T. Dana.\nThis volume was well received, and gave him a place among the first\npoets of his country. The smaller poems in that edition extend as far\nas page 289 of the present volume.\n\nBeside the long and serious illness through which he passed, his\nspirit was destined to suffer a deeper wound by the death of Mrs.\nAllston, in London, during the same year. These events gave to his\nmind a more earnest and undivided interest in his spiritual relations,\nand drew him more closely than ever before to his religious duties.\nHe received the rite of confirmation, and through life was a devout\nadherent to the Christian doctrine and discipline.\n\nThe character of Mr. Allston's religious feelings may be gathered,\nincidentally, from many of his writings. It is a subject to be treated\nwith the reserve and delicacy with which he himself would have had it\ninvested. Few minds have been more thoroughly imbued with belief in\nthe reality of the unseen world; few have given more full assent to\nthe truth, that \"the things which are seen are temporal, the things\nwhich are not seen are eternal.\" This was not merely an adopted\nopinion, a conviction imposed upon his understanding; it was of the\nessence of his spiritual constitution, one of the conditions of his\nrational existence. To him, the Supreme Being was no vague, mystical\nsource of light and truth, or an impersonation of goodness and truth\nthemselves; nor, on the other hand, a cold rationalistic notion of an\nunapproachable executor of natural and moral laws. His spirit rested\nin the faith of a sympathetic God. His belief was in a Being as\ninfinitely minute and sympathetic in his providences, as unlimited\nin his power and knowledge. Nor need it be said, that he was a firm\nbeliever in the central truths of Christianity, the Incarnation and\nRedemption; that he turned from unaided speculation to the inspired\nrecord and the visible Church; that he sought aid in the sacraments\nordained for the strengthening of infirm humanity, and looked for the\nresurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.\n\nAfter a second residence of seven years in Europe, he returned to\nAmerica in 1818, and again made Boston his home. There, in a circle of\nwarmly attached friends, surrounded by a sympathy and admiration which\nhis elevation and purity, the entire harmony of his life and pursuits,\ncould not fail to create, he devoted himself to his art, the labor of\nhis love.\n\nThis is not the place to enumerate his paintings, or to speak of his\ncharacter as an artist. His general reading he continued to the last,\nwith the earnestness of youth. As he retired from society, his taste\ninclined him to metaphysical studies, the more, perhaps, from their\ncontrast with the usual occupations of his mind. He took particular\npleasure in works of devout Christian speculation, without, however,\nneglecting a due proportion of strictly devotional literature. These\nhe varied by a constant recurrence to the great epic and dramatic\nmasters, and occasional reading of the earlier and the living\nnovelists, tales of wild romance and lighter fiction, voyages and\ntravels, biographies and letters. Nor was he without a strong interest\nin the current politics of his own country and of England, as to which\nhis principles were highly conservative.\n\nUpon his marriage with the daughter of the late Judge Dana, in 1830,\nhe removed to Cambridge, and soon afterwards began the preparation of\na course of lectures on Art, which he intended to deliver to a select\naudience of artists and men of letters in Boston. Four of these he\ncompleted. Rough drafts of two others were found among his papers, but\nnot in a state fit for publication. In 1841, he published his tale of\n\"Monaldi,\" a production of his early life. The poems in the present\nvolume, not included in the volume of 1813, are, with two exceptions,\nthe work of his later years. In them, as in his paintings of the\nsame period, may be seen the extreme attention to finish, always his\ncharacteristic, which, added to increasing bodily pain and infirmity,\nwas the cause of his leaving so much that is unfinished behind him.\n\nHis death occurred at his own house, in Cambridge, a little past\nmidnight on the morning of Sunday, the 9th of July, 1843. He had\nfinished a day and week of labor in his studio, upon his great picture\nof Belshazzar's Feast; the fresh paint denoting that the last touches\nof his pencil were given to that glorious but melancholy monument of\nthe best years of his later life. Having conversed with his retiring\nfamily with peculiar solemnity and earnestness upon the obligation and\nbeauty of a pure spiritual life, and on the realities of the world to\ncome, he had seated himself at his nightly employment of reading and\nwriting, which he usually carried into the early hours of the morning.\nIn the silence and solitude of this occupation, in a moment,\n\"with touch as gentle as the morning light,\" which was even then\napproaching, his spirit was called away to its proper home.\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\nPreface By The Editor\n\nLectures on Art.\n  Preliminary Note.--Ideas\n  Introductory Discourse\n  Art\n  Form\n  Composition\n\nAphorisms.\n  Sentences Written by Mr. Allston on the Walls of His Studio\n\nThe Hypochondriac\n\n\n\n\nLectures on Art.\n\n\n\n\nPreliminary Note.\n\nIdeas.\n\n\n\nAs the word _idea_ will frequently occur, and will be found\nalso to hold an important relation to our present subject, we shall\nendeavour, _in limine_, to possess our readers of the particular\nsense in which we understand and apply it.\n\nAn Idea, then, according to our apprehension, is the highest or most\nperfect _form_ in which any thing, whether of the physical, the\nintellectual, or the spiritual, may exist to the mind. By form, we do not\nmean _figure_ or _image_ (though these may be included in relation to the\nphysical); but that condition, or state, in which such objects become\ncognizable to the mind, or, in other words, become objects of\nconsciousness.\n\nIdeas are of two kinds; which we shall distinguish by the terms _primary_\nand _secondary_: the first being the _manifestation_ of objective\nrealities; the second, that of the reflex product, so to speak, of the\nmental constitution. In both cases, they may be said to be\nself-affirmed,--that is, they carry in themselves their own evidence;\nbeing therefore not only independent of the reflective faculties, but\nconstituting the only unchangeable ground of Truth, to which those\nfaculties may ultimately refer. Yet have these Ideas no living energy in\nthemselves; they are but the _forms_, as we have said, through or in which\na higher Power manifests to the consciousness the supreme truth of all\nthings real, in respect to the first class; and, in respect to the second,\nthe imaginative truths of the mental products, or mental combinations. Of\nthe nature and mode of operation of the Power to which we refer, we know,\nand can know, nothing; it is one of those secrets of our being which He\nwho made us has kept to himself. And we should be content with the\nassurance, that we have in it a sure and intuitive guide to a reverent\nknowledge of the beauty and grandeur of his works,--nay, of his own\nadorable reality. And who shall gainsay it, should we add, that this\nmysterious Power is essentially immanent in that \"breath of life,\" by\nwhich man becomes \"a living soul\"?\n\nIn the following remarks we shall confine ourself to the first\nclass of Ideas, namely, the Real; leaving the second to be noticed\nhereafter.\n\nAs to number, ideas are limited only by the number of kinds, without\ndirect relation to degrees; every object, therefore, having in itself\na _distinctive essential_, has also its distinct idea; while two\nor more objects of the same kind, however differing in degree, must\nconsequently refer only to one and the same. For instance, though a\nhundred animals should differ in size, strength, or color, yet, if\nnone of these peculiarities are essential to the species, they would\nall refer to the same supreme idea.\n\nThe same law applies equally, and with the same limitation, to\nthe essential differences in the intellectual, the moral, and the\nspiritual. All ideas, however, have but a potential existence until\nthey are called into the consciousness by some real object; the\nrequired condition of the object being a predetermined correspondence,\nor correlation. Every such object we term an _assimilant_.\n\nWith respect to those ideas which relate to the physical world, we\nremark, that, though the assimilants required are supplied by\nthe senses, the senses have in themselves no _productive,\nco\u00f6perating_ energy, being but the passive instruments, or medium,\nthrough which they are conveyed. That the senses, in this relation,\nare merely passive, admits of no question, from the obvious difference\nbetween the idea and the objects. The senses can do no more than\ntransmit the external in its actual forms, leaving the images in the\nmind exactly as they found them; whereas the intuitive power rejects,\nor assimilates, indefinitely, until they are resolved into the proper\nperfect form. Now the power which prescribes that form must, of\nnecessity, be antecedent to the presentation of the objects which it\nthus assimilates, as it could not else give consistence and unity to\nwhat was before separate or fragmentary. And every one who has\never realized an idea of the class in which alone we compare the\nassimilants with the ideal form, be he poet, painter, or philosopher,\nwell knows the wide difference between the materials and their result.\nWhen an idea is thus realized and made objective, it affirms its own\ntruth, nor can any process of the understanding shake its foundation;\nnay, it is to the mind an essential, imperative truth, then emerging,\nas it were, from the dark potential into the light of reality.\n\nIf this be so, the inference is plain, that the relation between the\nactual and the ideal is one of necessity, and therefore, also, is the\npredetermined correspondence between the prescribed form of an\nidea and its assimilant; for how otherwise could the former become\nrecipient of that which was repugnant or indifferent, when the\npresence of the latter constitutes the very condition by which it is\nmanifested, or can be known to exist? By actual, here, we do not mean\nthe exclusively physical, but whatever, in the strictest sense, can be\ncalled an _object_, as forming the opposite to a mere subject of\nthe mind.\n\nIt would appear, then, that what we call ourself must have a\n_dual_ reality, that is, in the mind and in the senses, since\nneither _alone_ could possibly explain the phenomena of the\nother; consequently, in the existence of either we have clearly\nimplied the reality of both. And hence must follow the still more\nimportant truth, that, in the _conscious presence_ of any\n_spiritual_ idea, we have the surest proof of a spiritual object;\nnor is this the less certain, though we perceive not the assimilant.\nNay, a spiritual assimilant cannot be perceived, but, to use the words\nof St. Paul, is \"spiritually discerned,\" that is, by a sense, so to\nspeak, of our own spirit. But to illustrate by example: we could not,\nfor instance, have the ideas of good and evil without their objective\nrealities, nor of right and wrong, in any intelligible form, without\nthe moral law to which they refer,--which law we call the Conscience;\nnor could we have the idea of a moral law without a moral lawgiver,\nand, if moral, then intelligent, and, if intelligent, then personal;\nin a word, we could not now have, as we know we have, the idea of\nconscience, without an objective, personal God. Such ideas may well be\ncalled revelations, since, without any perceived assimilant, we find\nthem equally affirmed with those ideas which relate to the purely\nphysical.\n\nBut here it may be asked, How are we to distinguish an Idea from a mere\n_notion_? We answer, By its self-affirmation. For an ideal truth, having\nits own evidence in itself, can neither be proved nor disproved by any\nthing out of itself; whatever, then, impresses the mind _as_ truth, _is_\ntruth until it can be _shown_ to be false; and consequently, in the\nconverse, whatever can be brought into the sphere of the understanding, as\na dialectic subject, is not an Idea. It will be observed, however, that we\ndo not say an idea may not be denied; but to deny is not to disprove. Many\nthings are denied in direct contradiction to fact; for the mind can\ncommand, and in no measured degree, the power of self-blinding, so that it\ncannot see what is actually before it. This is a psychological fact, which\nmay be attested by thousands, who can well remember the time when they had\nonce clearly discerned what has now vanished from their minds. Nor does\nthe actual cessation of these primeval forms, or the after presence of\ntheir fragmentary, nay, disfigured relics, disprove their reality, or\ntheir original integrity, as we could not else call them up in their\nproper forms at any future time, to the reacknowledging their truth: a\n_resuscitation_ and result, so to speak, which many have experienced.\n\nIn conclusion: though it be but one and the same Power that prescribes\nthe form and determines the truth of all Ideas, there is yet an\nessential difference between the two classes of ideas to which we have\nreferred; for it may well be doubted whether any Primary Idea can ever\nbe fully realized by a finite mind,--at least in the present state.\nTake, for instance, the idea of beauty. In its highest form, as\npresented to the consciousness, we still find it referring to\nsomething beyond and above itself, as if it were but an approximation\nto a still higher form. The truth of this, we think, will be\nparticularly felt by the artist, whether poet or painter, whose mind\nmay be supposed, from his natural bias, to be more peculiarly capable\nof its highest developement; and what true artist was ever satisfied\nwith any idea of beauty of which he is conscious? From this\napproximated form, however, he doubtless derives a high degree of\npleasure, nay, one of the purest of which his nature is capable;\nyet still is the pleasure modified, if we may so express it, by an\nundefined yearning for what he feels can never be realized. And\nwherefore this craving, but for the archetype of that which called it\nforth?--When we say not satisfied, we do not mean discontented, but\nsimply not in full fruition. And it is better that it should be\nso, since one of the happiest elements of our nature is that which\ncontinually impels it towards the indefinite and unattainable. So\nfar as we know, the like limits may be set to every other primary\nidea,--as if the Creator had reserved to himself alone the possible\ncontemplation of the archetypes of his universe.\n\nWith regard to the other class, that of Secondary Ideas, which we\nhave called the reflex product of the mind, their distinguishing\ncharacteristic is, that they not only admit of a perfect realization,\nbut also of outward manifestation, so as to be communicated to others.\nAll works of imagination, so called, present examples of this. Hence\nthey may also be termed imitative or imaginative. For, though they\ndraw their assimilants from the actual world, and are likewise\nregulated by the unknown Power before mentioned, yet are they but the\nforms of what, _as a whole_, have no actual existence;--they are\nnevertheless true to the mind, and are made so by the same Power which\naffirms their possibility. This species of Truth we shall hereafter\nhave occasion to distinguish as Poetic Truth.\n\n\n\n\nIntroductory Discourse.\n\n\n\nNext to the developement of our moral nature, to have subordinated the\nsenses to the mind is the highest triumph of the civilized state. Were\nit possible to embody the present complicated scheme of society, so as\nto bring it before us as a visible object, there is perhaps nothing\nin the world of sense that would so fill us with wonder; for what is\nthere in nature that may not fall within its limits? and yet how small\na portion of this stupendous fabric will be found to have any direct,\nmuch less exclusive, relation to the actual wants of the body! It\nmight seem, indeed, to an unreflecting observer, that our physical\nnecessities, which, truly estimated, are few and simple, have rather\nbeen increased than diminished by the civilized man. But this is not\ntrue; for, if a wider duty is imposed on the senses, it is only to\nminister to the increased demands of the imagination, which is now so\nmingled with our every-day concerns, even with our dress, houses, and\nfurniture, that, except with the brutalized, the purely sensuous wants\nmight almost be said to have become extinct: with the cultivated and\nrefined, they are at least so modified as to be no longer prominent.\n\nBut this refilling on the physical, like every thing else, has had its\nopponents: it is declaimed against as artificial. If by artificial is\nmeant unnatural, we cannot so consider it; but hold, on the contrary,\nthat the whole multiform scheme of the civilized state is not only in\naccordance with our nature, but an essential condition to the proper\ndevelopement of the human being. It is presupposed by the very wants\nof his mind; nor could it otherwise have been, any more than could\nhave been the cabin of the beaver, or the curious hive of the bee,\nwithout their pre\u00ebxisting instincts; it is therefore in the highest\nsense natural, as growing out of the inherent desires of the mind.\n\nBut we would not be misunderstood. When we speak of the refined\nstate as not out of nature, we mean such results as proceed from the\nlegitimate growth of our mental constitution, which we suppose to\nbe grounded in permanent, universal principles; and, whatever\nmodifications, however subtile, and apparently visionary, may follow\ntheir operation in the world of sense, so long as that operation\ndiverge not from its original ground, its effect must be, in the\nstrictest sense, natural. Thus the wildest visions of poetry, the\nunsubstantial forms of painting, and the mysterious harmonies of\nmusic, that seem to disembody the spirit, and make us creatures of the\nair,--even these, unreal as they are, may all have their foundation\nin immutable truth; and we may moreover know of this truth by its own\nevidence. Of this species of evidence we shall have occasion to speak\nhereafter. But there is another kind of growth, which may well be\ncalled unnatural; we mean, of those diseased appetites, whose effects\nare seen in the distorted forms of the _conventional_, having no\nground but in weariness of the true; and it cannot be denied that this\nmorbid growth has its full share, inwardly and outwardly, both of\nspace and importance. These, however, must sooner or later end as they\nbegan; they perish in the lie they make; and it were well did not\nother falsehoods take their places, to prolong a life whose only\ntenure is inconsequential succession,--in other words, Fashion.\n\nIf it be true, then, that even the commonplaces of life must all in\nsome degree partake of the mental, there can be but one rule by which\nto determine the proper rank of any object of pursuit, and that is by\nits nearer or more remote relation to our inward nature. Every system,\ntherefore, which tends to degrade a mental pleasure to the subordinate\nor superfluous, is both narrow and false, as virtually reversing its\nnatural order.\n\nIt pleased our Creator, when he endowed us with appetites and\nfunctions by which to sustain the economy of life, at the same time to\nannex to their exercise a sense of pleasure; hence our daily food, and\nthe daily alternation of repose and action, are no less grateful than\nimperative. That life may be sustained, and most of its functions\nperformed, without any coincident enjoyment, is certainly possible.\nOur food may be distasteful, action painful, and rest unrefreshing;\nand yet we may eat, and exercise, and sleep, nay, live thus for years.\nBut this is not our natural condition, and we call it disease. Were\nman a mere animal, the very act of living, in his natural or healthy\nstate, would be to him a continuous enjoyment. But he is also a moral\nand an intellectual being; and, in like manner, is the healthful\ncondition of these, the nobler parts of his nature, attended with\nsomething more than a consciousness of the mere process of existence.\nTo the exercise of his intellectual faculties and moral attributes the\nsame benevolent law has superadded a sense of pleasure,--of a kind,\ntoo, in the same degree transcending the highest bodily sensation, as\nmust that which is immortal transcend the perishable. It is not for us\nto ask why it is so; much less, because it squares not with the\npoor notion of material usefulness, to call in question a fact that\nannounces a nature to which the senses are but passing ministers. Let\nus rather receive this ennobling law, at least without misgiving, lest\nin our sensuous wisdom we exchange an enduring gift for a transient\ngratification.\n\nOf the peculiar fruits of this law, which we shall here distinguish by\nthe general term _mental pleasures_, it is our purpose to treat\nin the present discourse.\n\nIt is with no assumed diffidence that we venture on this subject; for,\nthough we shall offer nothing not believed to be true, we are but too\nsensible how small a portion of truth it is in our power to present.\nBut, were it far greater, and the present writer of a much higher\norder of intellect, there would still be sufficient cause for\nhumility in view of those impassable bounds that have ever met every\nself-questioning of the mind.\n\nBut whilst the narrowness of human knowledge may well preclude all\nself-exaltation, it would be worse than folly to hold as naught the\nmany important truths which have been wrought out for us by the mighty\nintellects of the past. If they have left us nothing for vainglory,\nthey have left us at least enough to be grateful for. Nor is it\na little, that they have taught us to look into those mysterious\nchambers of our being,--the abode of the spirit; and not a little,\nindeed, if what we are there permitted to know shall have brought with\nit the conviction, that we are not abandoned to a blind empiricism, to\nwaste life in guesses, and to guess at last that we have all our\nlives been guessing wrong,--but, unapproachable though it be to the\nsubordinate Understanding, that we have still within us an abiding\nInterpreter, which cannot be gainsaid, which makes our duty to God and\nman clear as the light, which ever guards the fountain of all true\npleasures, nay, which holds in subjection the last high gift of the\nCreator, that imaginative faculty whereby his exalted creature, made\nin his image, might mould at will, from his most marvellous world, yet\nunborn forms, even forms of beauty, grandeur, and majesty, having all\nof truth but his own divine prerogative,--_the mystery of Life_.\n\nAs the greater part of those Pleasures which we propose to discuss are\nintimately connected with the material world, it may be well, perhaps,\nto assign some reason for the epithet _mental_. To many, we know,\nthis will seem superfluous; but, when it is remembered how often we\nhear of this and that object delighting the eye, or of certain sounds\ncharming the ear, it may not be amiss to show that such expressions\nhave really no meaning except as metaphors. When the senses, as the\nmedium of communication, have conveyed to the mind either the sounds\nor images, their function ceases. So also with respect to the objects:\ntheir end is attained, at least as to us, when the sounds or images\nare thus transmitted, which, so far as they are concerned, must for\never remain the same within as without the mind. For, where the\nultimate end is not in mere bodily sensation, neither the senses nor\nthe objects possess, of themselves, any productive power; of the\nproduct that follows, the _tertium aliquid_, whether the pleasure\nwe feel be in a beautiful animal or in according sounds, neither the\none nor the other is really the cause, but simply the _occasion_.\nIt is clear, then, that the effect realized supposes of necessity\nanother agent, which must therefore exist only in the mind. But of\nthis hereafter.\n\nIf the cause of any emotion, which we seem to derive from an outward\nobject, were inherent exclusively in the object itself, there could\nbe no failure in any instance, except where the organs of sense were\neither diseased or imperfect. But it is a matter of fact that they\noften do fail where there is no disease or organic defect. Many of us,\nperhaps, can call to mind certain individuals, whose sense of hearing\nis as acute as our own, who yet can by no possibility be made to\nrecognize the slightest relation between the according notes of the\nsimplest melody; and, though they can as readily as others distinguish\nthe individual sounds, even to the degrees of flatness and sharpness,\nthe harmonic agreement is to them as mere noise. Let us suppose\nourselves present at a concert, in company with one such person and\nanother who possesses what is called musical sensibility. How are\nthey affected, for instance, by a piece of Mozart's? In the sense\nof hearing they are equal: look at them. In the one we perceive\nperplexity, annoyance, perhaps pain; he hears nothing but a confused\nmedley of sounds. In the other, the whole being is rapt in ecstasy,\nthe unutterable pleasure gushes from his eyes, he cannot articulate\nhis emotion;--in the words of one, who felt and embodied the subtile\nmystery in immortal verse, his very soul seems \"lapped in Elysium.\"\nNow, could this difference be possible, were the sole cause, strictly\nspeaking, in mere matter?\n\nNor do we contradict our position, when we admit, in certain\ncases,--for instance, in the producer,--the necessity of a nicer\norganization, in order to the more perfect _transmission_ of the\nfiner emotions; inasmuch as what is to be communicated in space and\ntime must needs be by some medium adapted thereto.\n\nSuch a person as Paganini, it is said, was able to \"discourse most\nexcellent music\" on a ballad-monger's fiddle; yet will any one\nquestion that he needed an instrument of somewhat finer construction\nto show forth his full powers? Nay, we might add, that he needed no\nless than the most delicate _Cremona_,--some instrument, as it\nwere, articulated into humanity,--to have inhaled and respired those\nattenuated strains, which, those who heard them think it hardly\nextravagant to say, seemed almost to embody silence.\n\nNow this mechanical instrument, by means of which such marvels were\nwrought, is but one of the many visible symbols of that more subtile\ninstrument through which the mind acts when it would manifest itself.\nIt would be too absurd to ask if any one believed that the music we\nspeak of was created, as well as conveyed, by the instrument. The\nviolin of Paganini may still be seen and handled; but the soul that\ninspired it is buried with its master.\n\nIf we admit a distinction between mind and matter, and the result we\nspeak of be purely mental, we should contradict the universal law\nof nature to assign such a product to mere matter, inasmuch as the\nnatural law forbids in the lower the production of the higher. Take\nan example from one of the lower forms of organic life,--a common\nvegetable. Will any one assert that the surrounding inorganic elements\nof air, earth, heat, and water produce its peculiar form? Though some,\nor all, of these may be essential to its developement, they are so\nonly as its predetermined correlatives, without which its existence\ncould not be manifested; and in like manner must the peculiar form of\nthe vegetable pre\u00ebxist in its life,--in its _idea_,--in order to\nevolve by these assimilants its own proper organism.\n\nNo possible modification in the degrees or proportion of these\nelements can change the specific form of a plant,--for instance, a\ncabbage into a cauliflower; it must ever remain a cabbage, _small or\nlarge, good or bad. _ So, too, is the external world to the\nmind; which needs, also, as the condition of its manifestation, its\nobjective correlative. Hence the presence of some outward object,\npredetermined to correspond to the pre\u00ebxisting idea in its living\npower, is essential to the evolution of its proper end,--the\npleasurable emotion. We beg it may be noted that we do not say\n_sensation_. And hence we hold ourself justified in speaking of\nsuch presence as simply the occasion, or condition, and not, _per\nse_, the cause. And hence, moreover, may be inferred the absolute\nnecessity of Dual Forces in order to the actual existence of any\nthing. One alone, the incomprehensible Author of all things, is\nself-subsisting in his perfect Unity.\n\nWe shall now endeavour to establish the following proposition: namely,\nthat the Pleasures in question have their true source in One Intuitive\nUniversal Principle or living Power, and that the three Ideas of\nBeauty, Truth, and Holiness, which we assume to represent the\n_perfect_ in the physical, intellectual, and moral worlds, are\nbut the several realized phases of this sovereign principle, which we\nshall call _Harmony_.\n\nOur first step, then, is to possess ourself of the essential or\ndistinctive characteristic of these pleasurable emotions. Apparently,\nthere is nothing more simple. And yet we are acquainted with no single\nterm that shall fully express it. But what every one has more or less\nfelt may certainly be made intelligible in a more extended form, and,\nwe should think, by any one in the slightest degree competent to\nself-examination. Let a person, then, be appealed to; and let him put\nthe question as to what passes within him when possessed by these\nemotions; and the spontaneous feeling will answer for us, that what we\ncall _self_ has no part in them. Nay, we further assert, that,\nwhen singly felt, that is, when unallied to other emotions as\nmodifying forces, they are wholly unmixed with _any personal\nconsiderations, or any conscious advantage to the individual_.\n\nNor is this assigning too high a character to the feelings in question\nbecause awakened in so many instances by the purely physical; since\ntheir true origin may clearly be traced to a common source with those\nprofounder emotions which we are wont to ascribe to the intellectual\nand moral. Besides, it should be borne in mind, that no physical\nobject can be otherwise to the mind than a mere _occasion_; its\ninward product, or mental effect, being from another Power. The proper\nview therefore is, not that such alliance can ever degrade the higher\nagent, but that its more humble and material _assimilant_ is thus\nelevated by it. So that nothing in nature should be counted mean,\nwhich can thus be exalted; but rather be honored, since no object can\nbecome so assimilated except by its predetermined correlation to our\nbetter nature.\n\nNeither is it the privilege of the exclusive few, the refined and\ncultivated, to feel them deeply. If we look beyond ourselves, even to\nthe promiscuous multitude, the instance will be rare, if existing at\nall, where some transient touch of these purer feelings has not raised\nthe individual to, at least, a momentary exemption from the common\nthraldom of self. And we greatly err if their universality is not\nsolely limited by those \"shades of the prison-house,\" which, in the\nwords of the poet, too often \"close upon the growing boy.\" Nay, so\nfar as we have observed, we cannot admit it as a question whether any\nperson through a whole life has always been wholly insensible,--we\nwill not say (though well we might) to the good and true,--but to\nbeauty; at least, to some one kind, or degree, of the beautiful. The\nmost abject wretch, however animalized by vice, may still be able to\nrecall the time when a morning or evening sky, a bird, a flower, or\nthe sight of some other object in nature, has given him a pleasure,\nwhich he felt to be distinct from that of his animal appetites, and\nto which he could attach not a thought of self-interest. And, though\ncrime and misery may close the heart for years, and seal it up for\never to every redeeming thought, they cannot so shut out from the\nmemory these gleams of innocence; even the brutified spirit, the\ncastaway of his kind, has been made to blush at this enduring light;\nfor it tells him of a truth, which might else have never been\nremembered,--that he has once been a man.\n\nAnd here may occur a question,--which might well be left to the ultra\nadvocates of the _cui bono_,--whether a simple flower may not\nsometimes be of higher use than a labor-saving machine.\n\nAs to the objects whose effect on the mind is here discussed, it is\nneedless to specify them; they are, in general, all such as are known\nto affect us in the manner described. The catalogue will vary both in\nnumber and kind with different persons, according to the degree of\nforce or developement in the overruling Principle.\n\nWe proceed, then, to reply to such objections as will doubtless be\nurged against the characteristic assumed. And first, as regards the\nBeautiful, we shall probably be met by the received notion, that we\nexperience in Beauty one of the most powerful incentives to passion;\nwhile examples without number will be brought in array to prove it\nalso the wonder-working cause of almost fabulous transformations,--as\ngiving energy to the indolent, patience to the quick, perseverance\nto the fickle, even courage to the timid; and, _vice vers\u00e2_, as\nunmanning the hero,--nay, urging the honorable to falsehood, treason,\nand murder; in a word, through the mastered, bewildered, sophisticated\n_self_, as indifferently raising and sinking the fascinated\nobject to the heights and depths of pleasure and misery, of virtue and\nvice.\n\nNow, if the Beauty here referred to is of the _human being_, we\ndo not gainsay it; but this is beauty in its _mixed mode_,--not\nin its high, passionless form, its singleness and purity. It is not\nBeauty as it descended from heaven, in the cloud, the rainbow, the\nflower, the bird, or in the concord of sweet sounds, that seem to\ncarry back the soul to whence it came.\n\nCould we look, indeed, at the human form in its simple, unallied\nphysical structure,--on that, for instance, of a beautiful woman,--and\nforget, or rather not feel, that it is other than a _form_, there\ncould be but one feeling: that nothing visible was ever so framed to\nbanish from the soul every ignoble thought, and imbue it, as it were,\nwith primeval innocence.\n\nWe are quite aware that the doctrine assumed in our main proposition\nwith regard to Beauty, as holding exclusive relation to the Physical,\nis not very likely to forestall favor; we therefore beg for it only\nsuch candid attention as, for the reasons advanced, it may appear to\ndeserve.\n\nThat such effects as have just been objected could not be from Beauty\nalone, in its pure and single form, but rather from its coincidence\nwith some real or supposed moral or intellectual quality, or with the\nanimal appetites, seems to us clear; as, were it otherwise, we might\ninfer the same from a beautiful infant,--the very thought of which is\nrevolting to common sense. In such conjunction, indeed, it cannot but\nhave a certain influence, but so modified as often to become a mere\naccessory, subordinated to the animal or moral object, and for the\nattainment of an end not its own; in proof of which, we find it almost\nuniformly partaking the penalty imposed on its incidental associates,\nshould ever their desires result in illusion,--namely, in the aversion\nthat follows. But the result of Beauty can never be such; when it\nseems otherwise, the effect, we think, can readily be traced to other\ncauses, as we shall presently endeavour to show.\n\nIt cannot be a matter of controversy whether Beauty is limited to the\nhuman form; the daily experience of the most ordinary man would answer\nNo: he finds it in the woods, the fields, in plants and animals,\nnay, in a thousand objects, as he looks upon nature; nor, though\nindefinitely diversified, does he hesitate to assign to each the same\nepithet. And why? Because the feelings awakened by all are similar in\nkind, though varying, doubtless, by many degrees in intenseness. Now\nsuppose he is asked of what personal advantage is all this beauty to\nhim. Verily, he would be puzzled to answer. It gives him pleasure,\nperhaps great pleasure. And this is all he could say. But why should\nthe effect be different, except in degree, from the beauty of a human\nbeing? We have already the answer in this concluding term. For what is\na human being but one who unites in himself a physical, intellectual,\nand moral nature, which cannot in one become even an object of thought\nwithout at least some obscure shadowings of its natural allies? How,\nthen, can we separate that which has an exclusive relation to his\nphysical form, without some perception of the moral and intellectual\nwith which it is joined? But how do we know that Beauty is limited\nto such exclusive relation? This brings us to the great problem; so\nsimple and easy of solution in all other cases, yet so intricate and\napparently inexplicable in man. In other things, it would be felt\nabsurd to make it a question, whether referring to form, color, or\nsound. A single instance will suffice. Let us suppose, then, an\nunfamiliar object, whose habits, disposition, and so forth, are wholly\nunknown, for instance, a bird of paradise, to be seen for the\nfirst time by twenty persons, and they all instantly call it\nbeautiful;--could there be any doubt that the pleasure it produced\nin each was of the same kind? or would any one of them ascribe his\npleasure to any thing but its form and plumage? Concerning natural\nobjects, and those inferior animals which are not under the influence\nof domestic associations, there is little or no difference among men:\nif they differ, it is only in degree, according to their sensibility.\nMen do not dispute about a rose. And why? Because there is nothing\nbeside the physical to interfere with the impression it was\npredetermined to make; and the idea of beauty is realized instantly.\nSo, also, with respect to other objects of an opposite character; they\ncan speak without deliberating, and call them plain, homely, ugly, and\nso on, thus instinctively expressing even their degree of remoteness\nfrom the condition of beauty. Who ever called a pelican beautiful, or\neven many animals endeared to us by their valuable qualities,--such as\nthe intelligent and docile elephant, or the affectionate orang-outang,\nor the faithful mastiff? Nay, we may run through a long list of most\nuseful and amiable creatures, that could not, under any circumstances,\ngive birth to an emotion corresponding to that which we ascribe to the\nbeautiful.\n\nBut there is scarcely a subject on which mankind are wider at\nvariance, than on the beauty of their own species,--some preferring\nthis, and others that, particular conformation; which can only be\naccounted for on the supposition of some predominant expression,\neither moral, intellectual, or sensual, with which they are in\nsympathy, or else the reverse. While some will task their memory,\nand resort to the schools, for their supposed infallible\n_rules_;--forgetting, meanwhile, that ultimate tribunal to which\ntheir canon must itself appeal, the ever-living principle which first\nevolved its truth, and which now, as then, is not to be reasoned\nabout, but _felt_. It need not be added how fruitful of blunders\nis this mechanical ground.\n\nNow we venture to assert that no mistake was ever made, even in a\nsingle glance, concerning any natural object, not disfigured by human\ncaprice, or which the eye had not been trained to look at through\nsome conventional medium. Under this latter circumstance, there are\ndoubtless many things in nature which affect men very differently; and\nmore especially such as, from their familiar nearness, have come under\nthe influence of _opinion_, and been incrusted, as it were, by\nthe successive deposits of many generations. But of the vast and\nvarious multitude of objects which have thus been forced from their\noriginal state, there is perhaps no one which has undergone so many\nand such strange disfigurements as the human form; or in relation to\nwhich our \"ideas,\" as we are pleased to call them, but in truth our\nopinions, have been so fluctuating. If an Idea, indeed, had any thing\nto do with Fashion, we should call many things monstrous to\nwhich custom has reconciled us. Let us suppose a case, by way of\nillustration. A gentleman and lady, from one of our fashionable\ncities, are making a tour on the borders of some of our new\nsettlements in the West. They are standing on the edge of a forest,\nperhaps admiring the grandeur of nature; perhaps, also, they are\nlovers, and sharing with nature their admiration for each other, whose\npersonal charms are set off to the utmost, according to the most\napproved notions, by the taste and elegance of their dress. Then\nsuppose an Indian hunter, who had never seen one of our civilized\nworld, or heard of our costume, coming suddenly upon them, their faces\nbeing turned from him. Would it be possible for him to imagine what\nkind of animals they were? We think not; and least of all, that he\nwould suppose them to be of his own species. This is no improbable\ncase; and we very much fear, should it ever occur, that the unrefined\nsavage would go home with an impression not very flattering either to\nthe milliner or the tailor.\n\nThat, under such disguises, we should consider human beauty as a kind\nof enigma, or a thing to dispute about, is not surprising; nor even\nthat we should often differ from ourselves, when so much of the\noutward man is thus made to depend on the shifting humors of some\nparamount Petronius of the shears. But, admitting it to be an easy\nmatter to divest the form, or, what is still more important, our\nown minds, of every thing conventional, there is the still greater\nobstacle to any true effect from the person alone, in that moral\nadmixture, already mentioned, which, more or less, must color the\nmost of our impressions from every individual. Is there not, then,\nsufficient ground for at least a doubt if, excepting idiots, there is\none human being in whom the purely physical is _at all times_ the\nsole agent? We do not say that it does not generally predominate. But,\nin a compound being like man, it seems next to impossible that the\nnature within should not at times, in some degree, transpire through\nthe most rigid texture of the outward form. We may not, indeed, always\nread aright the character thus obscurely indexed, or even be able to\nguess at it, one way or the other; still, it will affect us; nay, most\nso, perhaps, when most indefinite. Every man is, to a certain extent,\na physiognomist: we do not mean, according to the common acceptation,\nthat he is an interpreter of lines and quantities, which may be\nreduced to rules; but that he is born one, judging, not by any\nconscious rule, but by an instinct, which he can neither explain nor\ncomprehend, and which compels him to sit in judgment, whether he will\nor no. How else can we account for those instantaneous sympathies and\nantipathies towards an utter stranger?\n\nNow this moral influence has a twofold source, one in the object,\nand another in ourselves; nor is it easy to determine which is the\nstronger as a counteracting force. Hitherto we have considered only\nthe former; we now proceed with a few remarks upon the latter.\n\nWill any man say, that he is wholly without some natural or acquired\nbias? This is the source of the counteracting influence which we speak\nof in ourselves; but which, like many other of the secret springs,\nboth of thought and feeling, few men think of. It is nevertheless one\nwhich, on this particular subject, is scarcely ever inactive;\nand according to the bias will be our impressions, whether we be\nintellectual or sensual, coldly speculative or ardently imaginative.\nWe do not mean that it is always called forth by every thing we\napproach; we speak only of its usual activity between man and man; for\nthere seems to be a mysterious something in our nature, that, in spite\nof our wishes, will rarely allow of an absolute indifference towards\nany of the species; some effect, however slight, even as that of the\nair which we unconsciously inhale and again respire, must follow,\nwhether directly from the object or reacting from ourselves. Nay, so\nstrong is the law, whether in attraction or repulsion, that we cannot\nresist it even in relation to those human shadows projected on air by\nthe mere imagination; for we feel it in art only less than in nature,\nprovided, however, that the imagined being possess but the indication\nof a human soul: yet not so is it, if presenting only the outward\nform, since a mere form can in itself have no affinity with either\nthe heart or intellect. And here we would ask, Does not this\nstriking exception in the present argument cast back, as it were, a\nconfirmatory reflection?\n\nWe have often thought, that the power of the mere form could not be\nmore strongly exemplified than at a common paint-shop. Among the\nannual importations from the various marts of Europe, how\nmany beautiful faces, without an atom of meaning, attract the\npassengers,--stopping high and low, people of all descriptions,\nand actually giving pleasure, if not to every one, at least to the\nmajority; and very justly, for they have beauty, and _nothing\nelse_. But let another artist, some man of genius, copy the same\nfaces, and add character,--breathe into them souls: from that moment\nthe passers-by would see as if with other eyes; the affections and\nthe imagination then become the spectators; and, according to the\nquickness or dulness, the vulgarity or refinement, of these, would be\nthe impression. Thus a coarse mind may feel the beauty in the hard,\nsoulless forms of Van der Werf, yet turn away with apathy from the\nsanctified loveliness of a Madonna by Raffaelle.\n\nBut to return to the individual bias, which is continually inclining\nto, or repelling, What is more common, especially with women, than\na high admiration of a plain person, if connected with wit, or a\npleasing address? Can we have a stronger case in point than that of\nthe celebrated Wilkes, one of the ugliest, yet one of the most\nadmired men of his time? Even his own sex, blinded no doubt by their\nsympathetic bias, could see no fault in him, either in mind or\nperson; for, when it was objected to the latter, that \"he squinted\nconfoundedly,\" the reply was, \"No, Sir, not more than a gentleman\nought to squint.\"\n\nOf the tendency to particular pursuits,--to art, science, or any\nparticular course of life,--we do not speak; the bias we allude to is\nin the more personal disposition of the man,--in that which gives a\ntone to his internal character; nor is it material of what\nproportions compounded, of the affections, or the intellect, or the\nsenses,--whether of some only, or the whole; that these form the\nground of every man's bias is no less certain, than the fact that\nthere is scarcely any secret which men are in the habit of guarding\nwith such sedulous care. Nay, it would seem as if every one were\nimpelled to it by some superstitious instinct, that every one might\nhave it to say to himself, There is one thing in me which is all _my\nown_. Be this as it may, there are few things more hazardous than\nto pronounce with confidence on any man's bias. Indeed, most men would\nbe puzzled to name it to themselves; but its existence in them is\nnot the less a fact, because the form assumed may be so mixed and\ncomplicated as to be utterly undefinable. It is enough, however, that\nevery one feels, and is more or less led by it, whether definite or\nnot.\n\nThis being the case, how is it possible that it should not in some\ndegree affect our feelings towards every one we meet,--that it should\nnot leave some speck of leaven on each impression, which shall\nimpregnate it with something that we admire and love, or else with\nthat which we hate and despise?\n\nAnd what is the most beautiful or the most ungainly form before a\nsorcerer like this, who can endow a fair simpleton with the rarest\nintellect, or transform, by a glance, the intellectual, noble-hearted\ndwarf to an angel of light? These, of course, are extreme cases. But\nif true in these, as we have reason to believe, how formidable the\npower!\n\nBut though, as before observed, we may not read this secret with\nprecision, it is sometimes possible to make a shrewd guess at the\nprevailing tendency in certain individuals. Perhaps the most obvious\ncases are among the sanguine and imaginative; and the guess would be,\nthat a beautiful person would presently be enriched with all possible\nvirtues, while the colder speculatist would only see in it, not what\nit possessed, but the mind that it wanted. Now it would be curious to\nimagine (and the case is not impossible) how the eyes of each might be\nopened, with the probable consequence, how each might feel when his\neyes were opened, and the object was seen as it really is. Some\nuntoward circumstance comes unawares on the perfect creature: a burst\nof temper knits the brow, inflames the eye, inflates the nostril,\ngnashes the teeth, and converts the angel into a storming fury. What\nthen becomes of the visionary virtues? They have passed into air, and\ntaken with them, also, what was the fair creature's right,--her\nvery beauty. Yet a different change takes place with the dry man of\nintellect. The mindless object has taken shame of her ignorance; she\nbegins to cultivate her powers, which are gradually developed until\nthey expand and brighten; they inform her features, so that no one can\nlook upon them without seeing the evidence of no common intellect: the\ndry man, at last, is struck with their superior intelligence, and what\nmore surprises him is the grace and beauty, which, for the first time,\nthey reveal to his eyes. The learned dust which had so long buried his\nheart is quickly brushed away, and he weds the embodied mind. What\nthird change may follow, it is not to our purpose to foresee.\n\nHas human beauty, then, no power? When united with virtue and\nintellect, we might almost answer,--All power. It is the embodied\nharmony of the true poet; his visible Muse; the guardian angel of his\nbetter nature; the inspiring sibyl of his best affections, drawing him\nto her with a purifying charm, from the selfishness of the world, from\npoverty and neglect, from the low and base, nay, from his own frailty\nor vices:--for he cannot approach her with unhallowed thoughts, whom\nthe unlettered and ignorant look up to with awe, as to one of a\nrace above them; before whom the wisest and best bow down without\nabasement, and would bow in idolatry but for a higher reverence.\nNo! there is no power like this of mortal birth. But against the\nantagonist moral, the human beauty of itself has no power, no\nself-sustaining life. While it panders to evil desires, then, indeed,\nthere are few things may parallel its fearful might. But the unholy\nalliance must at last have an end. Look at it then, when the beautiful\nserpent has cast her slough.\n\nLet us turn to it for a moment, and behold it in league with elegant\naccomplishments and a subtile intellect: how complete its triumph! If\never the soul may be said to be intoxicated, it is then, when it feels\nthe full power of a beautiful, bad woman. The fabled enchantments\nof the East are less strange and wonder-working than the marvellous\nchanges which her spell has wrought. For a time every thought seems\nbound to her will; the eternal eye of the conscience closes before\nher; the everlasting truths of right and wrong sleep at her bidding;\nnay, things most gross and abhorred become suddenly invested with\na seeming purity: till the whole mind is hers, and the bewildered\nvictim, drunk with her charms, calls evil good. Then, what may follow?\nRead the annals of crime; it will tell us what follows the broken\nspell,--broken by the first degrading theft, the first stroke of the\ndagger, or the first drop of poison. The felon's eye turns upon the\nbeautiful sorceress with loathing and abhorrence: an asp, a toad, is\nnot more hateful! The story of Milwood has many counterparts.\n\nBut, although Beauty cannot sustain itself permanently against what is\nmorally bad, and has no direct power of producing good, it yet may,\nand often does, when unobstructed, through its unimpassioned purity,\npredispose to the good, except, perhaps, in natures grossly depraved;\ninasmuch as all affinities to the pure are so many reproaches to the\nvitiated mind, unless convertible to some selfish end. Witness the\nbeautiful wife, wedded for what is misnamed love, yet becoming the\nscorn of a brutal husband,--the more bitter, perhaps, if she be also\ngood. But, aside from those counteracting causes so often mentioned,\nit is as we have said: we are predisposed to feel kindly, and to think\npurely, of every beautiful object, until we have reason to think\notherwise; and according to our own hearts will be our thoughts.\n\nWe are aware of but one other objection which has not been noticed,\nand which might be made to the intuitive nature of the Idea. How is\nit, we may be asked, that artists, who are supposed, from their early\ndiscipline, to have overcome all conventional bias, and also to have\nacquired the more difficult power of analyzing their models, so as to\ncontemplate them in their separate elements, have so often varied as\nto their ideas of Beauty? Whether artists have really the power thus\nascribed to them, we shall not here inquire; it is no doubt, if\npossible, their business to acquire it. But, admitting it as true, we\ndeny the position: they do not change their ideas. They can have but\none Idea of Beauty, inasmuch as that Idea is but a specific phase of\none immutable Principle,--if there be such a principle; as we shall\nhereafter endeavour to show. Nor can they have of it any\nessentially different, much less opposite, conceptions: but their\n_apprehension_ of it may undergo many apparent changes, which,\nnevertheless, are but the various degrees that only mark a fuller\nconception; as their more extended acquaintance with the higher\noutward assimilants of Beauty brings them, of course, nearer to a\nperfect realization of the pre\u00ebxisting Idea. By _perfect_, here,\nwe mean only the nearest approximation by man. And we appeal to every\nartist, competent to answer, if it be not so. Does he ever descend\nfrom a higher assimilant to a lower? Suppose him to have been born in\nItaly; would he go to Holland to realize his Idea? But many a Dutchman\nhas sought in Italy what he could not find in his own country. We\ndo not by this intend any reflection on the latter,--a country so\nfruitful of genius; it is only saying that the human form in Italy is\nfrom a finer mould. Then, what directs the artist from one object to\nanother, and determines him which to choose, if he has not the guide\nwithin him? And why else should all nations instinctively bow before\nthe superior forms of Greece?\n\nWe add but one remark. Supposing the artist to be wholly freed from\nall modifying biases, such is seldom the case with those who criticize\nhis work,--especially those who would show their superiority by\ndetecting faults, and who frequently condemn the painter simply for\nnot expressing what he never aimed at. As to some, they are never\ncontent if they do not find beauty, whatever the subject, though\nit may neutralize the character, if not render it ridiculous. Were\nRaffaelle, who seldom sought the purely beautiful, to be judged by\nthe want of it, he would fall below Guido. But his object was much\nhigher,--in the intellect and the affections; it was the human being\nin his endless inflections of thought and passion, in which there is\nlittle probability he will ever be approached. Yet false criticism has\nbeen as prodigal to him in the ascription of beauty, as parsimonious\nand unjust to many others.\n\nIn conclusion, may there not be, in the difficulty we have thus\nendeavoured to solve, a probable significance of the responsible, as\nwell as distinct, position which the Human being holds in the world of\nlife? Are there no shadowings, in that reciprocal influence between\nsoul and soul, of some mysterious chain which links together the human\nfamily in its two extremes, giving to the very lowest an indefeasible\nclaim on the highest, so that we cannot be independent if we would,\nor indifferent even to the very meanest, without violation of an\nimperative law of our nature? And does it not at least _hint_\nof duties and affections towards the most deformed in body, the most\ndepraved in mind,--of interminable consequences? If man were a mere\nanimal, though the highest animal, could these inscrutable influences\naffect us as they do? Would not the animal appetites be our true and\nsole end? What even would Beauty be to the sated appetite? If it did\nnot, as in the last instance, of the brutal husband, become an object\nof scorn,--which it could not be, from the necessary absence of moral\nobliquity,--would it be better than a picked bone to a gorged dog?\nLeast of all could it resemble the visible sign of that pure idea, in\nwhich so many lofty minds have recognized the type of a far higher\nlove than that of earth, which the soul shall know, when, in a better\nworld, she shall realize the ultimate reunion of Beauty with the\nco\u00ebternal forms of Truth and Holiness.\n\nWe will now apply the characteristic assumed to the second leading\nIdea, namely, to Truth. In the first place, we take it for granted,\nthat no one will deny to the perception of truth some positive\npleasure; no one, at least, who is not at the same time prepared to\ncontradict the general sense of mankind, nay, we will add, their\nuniversal experience. The moment we begin to think, we begin to\nacquire, whether it be in trifles or otherwise, some kind of\nknowledge; and of two things presented to our notice, supposing one to\nbe true and the other false, no one ever knowingly, and for its own\nsake, chooses the false: whatever he may do in after life, for some\nselfish purpose, he cannot do so in childhood, where there is no such\nmotive, without violence to his nature. And here we are supposing the\nunderstanding, with its triumphant pride and subtilty, out of the\nquestion, and the child making his choice under the spontaneous sense\nof the true and the false. For, were it otherwise, and the choice\nindifferent, what possible foundation for the commonest acts of life,\neven as it respects himself, would there be to him who should sow with\nlies the very soil of his growing nature. It is time enough in manhood\nto begin to lie to one's self; but a self-lying youth can have no\nproper self to rest on, at any period. So that the greatest liar, even\nFerdinand Mendez Pinto, must have loved the truth,--at least at one\ntime of his life. We say _loved_; for a voluntary choice implies\nof necessity some degree of pleasure in the choosing, however faint\nthe emotion or insignificant the object. It is, therefore, _caeteris\nparibus_, not only necessary, but natural, to find pleasure in\ntruth.\n\nNow the question is, whether the pleasurable emotion, which is, so\nto speak, the indigenous growth of Truth, can in any case be free of\nself, or some personal gratification. To this, we apprehend, there\nwill be no lack of answer. Nay, the answer has already been given from\nthe dark antiquity of ages, that even for her own exceeding loveliness\nhas Truth been canonized. If there was any thing of self in the\n_Eureka_ of Pythagoras, there was not in the acclamations of\nhis country who rejoiced with him. But we may doubt the feeling, if\napplied to him. If wealth or fame has sometimes followed in the track\nof Genius, it has followed as an accident, but never preceded, as the\nefficient conductor to any great discovery. For what is Genius but the\nprophetic revealer of the unseen True, that can neither be purchased\nnor bribed into light? If it come, then, at all, it must needs be\nevoked by a kindred love as pure as itself. Shall we appeal to the\nartist? If he deserve the name, he will disdain the imputation that\neither wealth or fame has ever aided at the birth of his ideal\noffspring: it was Truth that smiled upon him, that made light his\ntravail, that blessed their birth, and, by her fond recognition,\nimparted to his breast her own most pure, unimpassioned emotion. But,\nwhatever mixed feeling, through the infirmity of the agent, may have\ninfluenced the artist, whether poet or painter, there can be but one\nfeeling in the reader or spectator.\n\nIndeed, so imperishable is this property of Truth, that it seems to\nlose nothing of its power, even when causing itself to be reflected\nfrom things that in themselves have, properly speaking, no truth. Of\nthis we have abundant examples in some of the Dutch pictures, where\nthe principal object is simply a dish of oysters or a pickled herring.\nWe remember a picture of this kind, consisting solely of these very\nobjects, from which we experienced a pleasure _almost_ exquisite.\nAnd we would here remark, that the appetite then was in no way\nconcerned. The pleasure, therefore, must have been from the imitated\ntruth. It is certainly a curious question why this should be, while\nthe things themselves, that is, the actual objects, should produce no\nsuch effect. And it seems to be because, in the latter case, there was\nno truth involved. The real oysters, &c., were indeed so far true as\nthey were actual objects, but they did not contain a _truth_ in\n_relation_ to any thing. Whereas, in the pictured oysters,\ntheir relation to the actual was shown and verified in the mutual\nresemblance.\n\nIf this be true, as we doubt not, we have at least one evidence, where\nit might not be looked for, that there is that in Truth which is\nsatisfying of itself. But a stronger testimony may still be found\nwhere, from all _\u00e0 priori_ reasoning, we might expect, if not\npositive pain, at least no pleasure; and that is, where we find it\nunited with human suffering, as in the deep scenes of tragedy. Now it\ncannot be doubted, that some of our most refined pleasures are often\nderived from this source, and from scenes that in nature we could\nnot look upon. And why is this, but for the reason assigned in the\npreceding instance of a still-life picture? the only difference being,\nthat the latter is addressed to the senses, and the former to the\nheart and intellect: which difference, however, well accounts for\ntheir vast disparity of effect. But may not these tragic pleasures\nhave their source in sympathy alone? We answer, No. For who ever felt\nit in watching the progress of actual villany or the betrayal of\ninnocence, or in being an eyewitness of murder? Now, though we revolt\nat these and the like atrocities in actual life, it would be both new\nand false to assert that they have no attraction in Art.\n\nNor do we believe that this acknowledged interest can well be traced\nto any other source than the one assumed; namely, to the truth\nof _relation_. And in this capacity does Truth stand to the\nImagination, which is the proper medium through which the artist,\nwhether poet or painter, projects his scenes.\n\nThe seat of interest here, then, being _in_ the imagination, it\nis precisely on that account, and because it cannot be brought home to\nself, that the pleasure ensues; which is plainly, therefore, derived\nfrom its verisimilitude to the actual, and, though together with its\nappropriate excitement, yet without its imperative condition, namely,\nits call of _life_ on the living affections.\n\nThe proper word here is _interest_, not sympathy, for sympathy\nwith actual suffering, be the object good or bad, is in its nature\npainful; an obvious reason why so few in the more prosaic world have\nthe virtue to seek it.\n\nBut is it not the business of the artist to touch the heart?\nTrue,--and it is his high privilege, as its liege-lord, to sound its\nvery depths; nay, from its lowest deep to touch alike its loftiest\nbreathing pinnacle. Yet he may not even approach it, except through\nthe transforming atmosphere of the imagination, where alone the\nsaddest notes of woe, even the appalling shriek of despair, are\nsoftened, as it were, by the tempering dews of this visionary region,\nere they fall upon the heart. Else how could we stand the smothered\nmoan of Desdemona, or the fiendish adjuration of Lady Macbeth,--more\nfrightful even than the after-deed of her husband,--or look upon the\nagony of the wretched Judas, in the terrible picture of Rembrandt,\nwhen he returns the purchase of blood to the impenetrable Sanhedrim?\nAy, how could we ever stand these but for that ideal panoply through\nwhich we feel only their modified vibrations?\n\nLet the imitation, or rather copy, be so close as to trench on\ndeception, the effect will be far different; for, the _condition_\nof _relation_ being thus virtually lost, the copy becomes as\nthe original,--circumscribed by its own qualities, repulsive or\nattractive, as the case may be. I remember a striking instance of this\nin a celebrated actress, whose copies of actual suffering were so\npainfully accurate, that I was forced to turn away from the scene,\nunable to endure it; her scream of agony in Belvidera seemed to ring\nin my ears for hours after. Not so was it with the great Mrs. Siddons,\nwho moved not a step but in a poetic atmosphere, through which the\nfiercest passions seemed rather to _loom_ like distant mountains\nwhen first descried at sea,--massive and solid, yet resting on air.\n\nIt would appear, then, that there is something in truth, though but\nseen in the dim shadow of relation, that enforces interest,--and, so\nit be without pain, at least some degree of pleasure; which, however\nslight, is not unimportant, as presenting an impassable barrier to the\nmere animal. We must not, however, be understood as claiming for this\nRelative Truth the power of exciting a pleasurable interest in\nall possible cases; there are exceptions, as in the horrible, the\nloathsome, &c., which under no condition can be otherwise than\nrevolting. It is enough for our purpose, to have shown that its effect\nis in most cases similar to that we have ascribed to Truth absolute.\n\nBut objections are the natural adversaries of every adventurer: there\nis one in our path which we soon descried at our first setting\nout. And we find it especially opposed to the assertion respecting\nchildren; namely, that between two things, where there is no personal\nadvantage to bias the decision, they will always choose that which\nseems to them true, rather than the other which appears false. To\nthis is opposed the notorious fact of the remarkable propensity which\nchildren have to lying. This is readily admitted; but it does not meet\nus, unless it can be shown that they have not in the act of lying an\neye to its _reward_,--setting aside any outward advantage,--in\nthe shape of self-complacent thought at their superior wit or\ningenuity. Now it is equally notorious, that such secret triumph will\noften betray itself by a smile, or wink, or some other sign from\nthe chuckling urchin, which proves any thing but that the lie was\ngratuitous. No, not even a child can love a lie purely for its own\nsake; he would else love it in another, which is against fact. Indeed,\nso far from it, that, long before he can have had any notion of what\nis meant by honor, the word _liar_ becomes one of his first and\nmost opprobrious terms of reproach. Look at any child's face when he\ntells his companion he lies. We ask no more than that most logical\nexpression; and, if it speak not of a natural abhorrence only to be\novercome by self-interest, there is no trust in any thing. No. We\ncannot believe that man or child, however depraved, _could_ tell\nan _unproductive, gratuitous lie_.\n\nOf the last and highest source of our pleasurable emotions we need say\nlittle; since no one will question that, if sought at all, it can\nonly be for its own sake. But it does not become us--at least in this\nplace--to enter on the subject of Holiness; of that angelic state,\nwhose only manifestation is in the perfect unison with the Divine\nWill. We may, however, consider it in the next degree, as it is known,\nand as we believe often realized, among men: we mean Goodness.\n\nWe presume it is superfluous to define a good act; for every one\nknows, or ought to know, that no act is good in its true sense, which\nhas any, the least, reference to the agent's self. Nor is it necessary\nto adduce examples; our object being rather to show that the\nrecognition of goodness--and we beg that the word be especially\nnoted--must result, of necessity, in such an emotion as shall partake\nof its own character, that is, be entirely devoid of self-interest.\n\nThis will no doubt appear to many a startling position. But let it be\nobserved, that we have not said it will _always_ be recognized.\nThere are many reasons why it should not be, and is not. We all know\nhow easy it is to turn away from what gives us no pleasure. A long\ncourse of vice, together with the consciousness that goodness has\ndeparted from ourselves, may make it painful to look upon it. Nay,\nthe contemplation of it may become, on this account, so painful as to\namount to agony. But that Goodness can be hated for its own sake we do\nnot believe, except by a devil, or some irredeemable incarnation of\nevil, if such there be on this side the grave. But it is objected,\nthat bad men have sometimes a pleasure in Evil from which they neither\nderive nor hope for any personal advantage, that is, simply _because\nit is evil_. But we deny the fact. We deny that an unmixed\npleasure, which is purely abstracted from all reference to self, is in\nthe power of Evil. Should any man assert this even of himself, he is\nnot to be believed; he lies to his own heart,--and this he may do\nwithout being conscious of it. But how can this be? Nothing more\neasy: by a simple dislocation of words; by the aid of that false\nnomenclature which began with the first Fratricide, and has\ncontinued to accumulate through successive ages, till it reached\nits consummation, for every possible sin, in the French Revolution.\nIndeed, there are few things more easy; it is only to transfer to the\nevil the name of its opposite. Some of us, perhaps, may have witnessed\nthe savage exultation of some hardened wretch, when the accidental\nspectator of an atrocious act. But is such exultation pleasure? Is it\nat all akin to what is recognized as pleasure even by this hardened\nwretch? Yet so he may call it. But should we, could we look into his\nheart? Should we not rather pause for a time, from mere ignorance of\nthe true vernacular of sin. What he feels may thus be a mystery to all\nbut the reprobate; but it is not pleasure either in the deed or the\ndoer: for, as the law of Good is Harmony, so is Discord that of Evil;\nand as sympathy to Harmony, so is revulsion to Discord. And where is\nhatred deepest and deadliest? Among the wicked. Yet they often hate\nthe good. True: but not goodness, not the good man's virtues; these\nthey envy, and hate him for possessing them. But more commonly the\nobject of dislike is first stripped of his virtues by detraction; the\ndetractor then supplies their place by the needful vices,--perhaps\nwith his own; then, indeed, he is ripe for hatred. When a sinful act\nis made personal, it is another affair; it then becomes a _part_\nof _the man_; and he may then worship it with the idolatry of\na devil. But there is a vast gulf between his own idol and that of\nanother.\n\nTo prevent misapprehension, we would here observe, that we do not\naffirm of either Good or Evil any irresistible power of enforcing\nlove or exciting abhorrence, having evidence to the contrary in\nthe multitudes about us; all we affirm is, that, when contemplated\nabstractly, they cannot be viewed otherwise. Nor is the fact of\ntheir inefficiency in many cases difficult of solution, when it is\nremembered that the very condition to their _true_ effect is\nthe complete absence of self, that they must clearly be viewed _ab\nextra_; a hard, not to say impracticable, condition to the very\ndepraved; for it may well be doubted if to such minds any act or\nobject having a moral nature can be presented without some personal\nrelation. It is not therefore surprising, that, where the condition is\nso precluded, there should be, not only no proper response to the\nlaw of Good or Evil, but such frequent misapprehension of their true\ncharacter. Were it possible to see with the eyes of others, this might\nnot so often occur; for it need not be remarked, that few things, if\nany, ever retain their proper forms in the atmosphere of self-love;\na fact that will account for many obliquities besides the one in\nquestion. To this we may add, that the existence of a compulsory power\nin either Good or Evil could not, in respect to man, consist with his\nfree agency,--without which there could be no conscience; nor does it\nfollow, that, because men, with the free power of choice, yet so often\nchoose wrong, there is any natural indistinctness in the absolute\ncharacter of Evil, which, as before hinted, is sufficiently apparent\nto them when referring to others; in such cases the obliquitous choice\nonly shows, that, with the full force of right perception, their\ninterposing passions or interests have also the power of giving their\nown color to every object having the least relation to themselves.\n\nAdmitting this personal modification, we may then safely repeat our\nposition,--that to hate Good or to love Evil, solely for their own\nsakes, is only possible with the irredeemably wicked, in other words,\nwith devils.\n\nWe now proceed to the latter clause of our general proposition. And here\nit may be asked, on what ground we assume one intuitive universal\nPrinciple as the true source of all those emotions which have just been\ndiscussed. To this we reply, On the ground of their common agreement. As\nwe shall here use the words _effect_ and _emotion_ as convertible terms,\nwe wish it to be understood, that, when we apply the epithet _common_ or\n_same_ to _effect_, we do so only in relation to _kind_, and for the\nsake of brevity, instead of saying the same _class_ of effects; implying\nalso in the word _kind_ the existence of many degrees, but no other\ndifference. For instance, if a beautiful flower and a noble act shall be\nfound to excite a kindred emotion, however slight from the one or deep\nfrom the other, they come in effect under the same category. And this we\nare forced to admit, however heterogeneous, since a common ground is\nnecessarily predicated of a common result. How else, for instance, can\nwe account for a scene in nature, a bird, an animal, a human form,\naffecting us each in a similar way? There is certainly no similitude in\nthe objects that compose a landscape, and the form of an animal and man;\nthey have no resemblance either in shape, or texture, or color, in\nroughness, smoothness, or any other known quality; while their several\neffects are so near akin, that we do not stop to measure even the wide\ndegrees by which they are marked, but class them in a breath by some\ncommon term. It is very plain that this singular property of\nassimilating to one what is so widely unlike cannot proceed from any\nsimilar conformation, or quality, or attribute of mere being, that is,\nof any thing essential to distinctive existence. There must needs, then,\nbe some common ground for their common effect. For if they agree not in\nthemselves one with the other, it follows of necessity that the ground\nof their agreement must be in relation to something within our own\nminds, since only _there_ is this common effect known as a fact.\n\nWe are now brought to the important question, _Where_ and\n_what_ is this reconciling ground? Certainly not in sensation,\nfor that could only reflect their distinctive differences. Neither can\nit be in the reflective faculties, since the effect in question, being\nco-instantaneous, is wholly independent of any process of reasoning;\nfor we do not feel it because we understand, but only because we are\nconscious of its presence. Nay, it is because we neither do nor can\nunderstand it, being therefore a matter aloof from all the powers of\nreasoning, that its character is such as has been asserted, and, as\nsuch, universal.\n\nWhere, then, shall we search for this mysterious ground but in the\nmind, since only there, as before observed, is this common effect\nknown as a fact? and where in the mind but in some inherent Principle,\nwhich is both intuitive and universal, since, in a greater or less\ndegree, all men feel it _without knowing why?_\n\nBut since an inward Principle can, of necessity, have only a potential\nexistence, until called into action by some outward object, it is also\nclear that any similar effect, which shall then be recognized through\nit, from any number of differing and distinct objects, can only arise\nfrom some mutual relation between a _something_ in the objects\nand in the Principle supposed, as their joint result and proper\nproduct.\n\nAnd, since it would appear that we cannot avoid the admission of\nsome such Principle, having a reciprocal relation to certain outward\nobjects, to account for these kindred emotions from so many distinct\nand heterogeneous sources, it remains only that we give it a name;\nwhich has already been anticipated in the term Harmony.\n\nThe next question here is, In what consists this _peculiar relation?_ We\nhave seen that it cannot be in any thing that is essential to any\ncondition of mere being or existence; it must therefore consist in some\n_undiscoverable_ condition indifferently applicable to the Physical,\nIntellectual, and Moral, yet only applicable in each to certain kinds.\n\nAnd this is all that we do or _can_ know of it. But of this we\nmay be as certain as that we live and breathe.\n\nIt is true that, for particular purposes, we may analyze certain\ncombinations of sounds and colors and forms, so as to ascertain their\nrelative quantities or collocation; and these facts (of which we shall\nhereafter have occasion to speak) may be of importance both in Art and\nScience. Still, when thus obtained, they will be no more than mere\nfacts, on which we can predicate nothing but that, when they are\nimitated,--that is, when similar combinations of quantities, &c., are\nrepeated in a work of art,--they will produce the same effect. But\n_why_ they should is a mystery which the reflective faculties do\nnot solve; and never can, because it refers to a living Power that is\nabove the understanding. In the human figure, for instance, we can\ngive no reason why eight heads to the stature please us better than\nsix, or why three or twelve heads seem to us monstrous. If we say, in\nthe latter case, _because_ the head of the one is too small and\nof the other too large, we give no _reason_; we only state the\n_fact_ of their disagreeable effect on us. And, if we make the\nproportion of eight heads our rule, it is because of the fact of its\nbeing more pleasing to us than any other; and, from the same feeling,\nwe prefer those statures which approach it the nearest. Suppose we\nanalyze a certain combination of sounds and colors, so as to ascertain\nthe exact relative quantities of the one and the collocation of the\nother, and then compare them. What possible resemblance can the\nunderstanding perceive between these sounds and colors? And yet a\nsomething within us responds to both in a similar emotion. And so with\na thousand things, nay, with myriads of objects that have no other\naffinity but with that mysterious harmony which began with our being,\nwhich slept with our infancy, and which their presence only seems to\nhave _awakened_. If we cannot go back to our own childhood, we\nmay see its illustration in those about us who are now emerging into\nthat unsophisticated state. Look at them in the fields, among the\nbirds and flowers; their happy faces speak the harmony within them:\nthe divine instrument, which these have touched, gives them a joy\nwhich, perhaps, only childhood in its first fresh consciousness can\nknow. Yet what do they understand of musical quantities, or of the\ntheory of colors?\n\nAnd so with respect to Truth and Goodness; whose pre\u00ebxisting Ideas,\nbeing in the living constituents of an immortal spirit, need but the\nslightest breath of some outward condition of the true and good,--a\nsimple problem, or a kind act,--to awake them, as it were, from their\nunconscious sleep, and start them for eternity.\n\nWe may venture to assert, that no philosopher, however ingenious,\ncould communicate to a child the abstract idea of Right, had the\nlatter nothing beyond or above the understanding. He might, indeed, be\ntaught, like the inferior animals,--a dog, for instance,--that, if he\ntook certain forbidden things, he would be punished, and thus do\nright through fear. Still he would desire the forbidden thing,\nthough belonging to another; nor could he conceive why he should not\nappropriate to himself, and thus allay his appetite, what was held by\nanother, could he do so undetected; nor attain to any higher notion of\nright than that of the strongest. But the child has something higher\nthan the mere power of apprehending consequences. The simplest\nexposition, whether of right or wrong, even by an ignorant nurse, is\ninstantly responded to by something _within him_, which, thus\nawakened, becomes to him a living voice ever after; and the good and\nthe true must thenceforth answer its call, even though succeeding\nyears would fain overlay them with the suffocating crowds of evil and\nfalsehood.\n\nWe do not say that these eternal Ideas of Beauty, Truth, and Goodness\nwill, strictly speaking, always act. Though indestructible, they may\nbe banished for a time by the perverted Will, and mockeries of the\nbrain, like the fume-born phantoms from the witches' caldron in\nMacbeth, take their places, and assume their functions. We have\nexamples of this in every age, and perhaps in none more startling than\nin the present. But we mean only that they cannot be _forgotten_:\nnay, they are but, too often recalled with unwelcome distinctness.\nCould we read the annals which must needs be scored on every\nheart,--could we look upon those of the aged reprobate,--who will\ndoubt that their darkest passages are those made visible by the\ndistant gleams from these angelic Forms, that, like the Three which\nstood before the tent of Abraham, once looked upon his youth?\n\nAnd we doubt not that the truest witness to the common source of these\ninborn Ideas would readily be acknowledged by all, could they return\nto it now with their matured power of introspection, which is, at\nleast, one of the few advantages of advancing years. But, though\nwe cannot bring back youth, we may still recover much of its purer\nrevelations of our nature from what has been left in the memory. From\nthe dim present, then, we would appeal to that fresher time, ere\nthe young spirit had shrunk from the overbearing pride of the\nunderstanding, and confidently ask, if the emotions we then felt from\nthe Beautiful, the True, and the Good, did not seem in some way to\nrefer to a common origin. And we would also ask, if it was then\nfrequent that the influence from one was _singly_ felt,--if it\ndid not rather bring with it, however remotely, a sense of something,\nthough widely differing, yet still akin to it. When we have basked in\nthe beauty of a summer sunset, was there nothing in the sky that spoke\nto the soul of Truth and Goodness? And when the opening intellect\nfirst received the truth of the great law of gravitation, or felt\nitself mounting through the profound of space, to travel with the\nplanets in their unerring rounds, did never then the kindred Ideas of\nGoodness and Beauty chime in, as it were, with the fabled music,--not\nfabled to the soul,--which led you on like one entranced?\n\nAnd again, when, in the passive quiet of your moral nature, so predisposed\nin youth to all things genial, you have looked abroad on this marvellous,\never teeming Earth,--ever teeming alike for mind and body,--and have felt\nupon you flow, as from ten thousand springs of Goodness, Truth, and\nBeauty, ten thousand streams of innocent enjoyment; did you not then\n_almost hear_ them shout in confluence, and almost _see_ them gushing\nupwards, as if they would prove their unity, in one harmonious fountain?\n\nBut, though the preceding be admitted as all true in respect to\ncertain \"gifted\" individuals, it may yet be denied that it is equally\ntrue with respect to all, in other words, that the Principle assumed\nis an inherent constituent of the human being. To this we reply, that\nuniversality does not necessarily imply equality.\n\nThe universality of a Principle does not imply _everywhere_ equal\nenergy or activity, or even the same mode of manifestation, any more\nthan do the essential Faculties of the Understanding. Of this we have\nan analogous illustration in the faculty of Memory; which is almost\nindefinitely differenced in different men, both in degree and mode. In\nsome, its greatest power is shown in the retention of thoughts, but\nnot of words, that is, not of the original words in which they were\npresented. Others possess it in a very remarkable degree as to forms,\nplaces, &c., and but imperfectly for other things; others, again,\nnever forget names, dates, or figures, yet cannot repeat a\nconversation the day after it took place; while some few have the\ndoubtful happiness of forgetting nothing. We might go on with a long\nlist of the various modes and degrees in which this faculty, so\nessential to the human being, is everywhere manifested. But this is\nsufficient for our purpose. In like manner is the Principle of Harmony\nmanifested; in one person as it relates to Form, in another to Sound;\nso, too, may it vary as to the degrees of truth and goodness. We say\ndegrees; for we may well doubt whether, even in the faculty of memory,\nits apparent absence as to any one essential object is any thing more\nthan a feeble degree of activity: and the doubt is strengthened by the\nfact, that in many seemingly hopeless cases it has been actually, as\nit were, brought into birth. And we are still indisposed to admit its\nentire absence in any one particular for which it was bestowed on man.\nAn imperfect developement, especially as relating to the intellectual\nand moral, we know to depend, in no slight measure, on the _will_\nof the subject. Nay, (with the exception of idiots,) it may safely be\naffirmed, that no individual ever existed who could not perceive the\ndifference between what is true and false, and right and wrong. We\nhere, of course, except those who have so ingeniously _unmade_\nthemselves, in order to reconstruct their \"humanity\" after a better\nfashion. As to the \"_why_\" of these differences, we know nothing;\nit is one of those unfathomable mysteries which to the finite mind\nmust ever be hidden.\n\nThough it has been our purpose, throughout this discourse, to direct\nour inquiries mainly to the essential Elements of the subject, it may\nnot be amiss here to take a brief notice of their collateral product\nin those mixed modes from which we derive so large a portion of our\nmental gratification: we allude to the various combinations of the\nseveral Ideas, which have just been examined, with each other as well\nas with their opposites. To this prolific source may be traced much\nof that many-colored interest which we take in their various forms as\npresented by the imagination,--in every thing, indeed, which is true,\nor even partially true, to the great Principle of Harmony, both in\nnature and in art. It is to these mixed modes more especially, that we\nowe all that mysterious interest which gives the illusion of life to a\nwork of fiction, and fills us with delight or melts with woe, whether\nin the happiness or the suffering of some imagined being, uniting\ngoodness with beauty, or virtue with plainness, or uncommon purity and\nintellect even with deformity; for even that may be so overpowered in\nthe prominent harmony of superior intellect and moral worth, as to be\nvirtually neutralized, at least, to become unobtrusive as a discordant\nforce. Besides, it cannot be expected that _complete_ harmony is\never to be realized in our imperfect state; we should else, perhaps,\nwith such expectation, have no pleasures of the kind we speak of:\nnor is this necessary, the imagination being always ready to supply\ndeficiencies, whenever the approximation is sufficiently near to\ncall it forth. Nay, if the interest felt be nothing more than mere\ncuriosity, we still refer to this presiding Principle; which is no\nless essential to a simple combination of events, than to the higher\ndemands of Form or Character. But its presence must be felt, however\nslightly. Of this we have the evidence in many cases, and, perhaps,\nmost conclusive where the partial harmony is felt to verge on a\npowerful discord; or where the effort to unite them produces that\nsingular alternation of what is both revolting and pleasing: as in the\nstartling union of evil passions with some noble quality, or with a\nmaster intellect. And here we have a solution of that paradoxical\nfeeling of interest and abhorrence, which we experience in such a\ncharacter as King Richard.\n\nAnd may it not be that we are permitted this interest for a deeper\npurpose than we are wont to suppose; because Sin is best seen in the\nlight of Virtue,--and then most fearfully when she holds the torch to\nherself? Be this as it may, with pure, unintellectual, brutal evil\nit is very different. We cannot look upon it undismayed: we take no\ninterest in it, nor can we. In Richard there is scarce a glimmer of\nhis better nature; yet we do not despise him, for his intellect and\ncourage command our respect. But the fiend Iago,--who ever followed\nhim through the weaving of his spider-like web, without perpetual\nrecurrence to its venomous source,--his devilish heart? Even the\nintellect he shows seems actually animalized, and we shudder at its\nsubtlety, as at the cunning of a reptile. Whatever interest may have\nbeen imputed to him should be placed to the account of his hapless\nvictim; to the first striving with distrust of a generous nature; to\nthe vague sense of misery, then its gradual developement, then the\nfinal overthrow of absolute faith; and, last of all, to the throes\nof agony of the noble Moor, as he writhes and gasps in his accursed\ntoils.\n\nTo these mixed modes may be added another branch, which we shall term the\nclass of Imputed Attributes. In this class are concerned all those natural\nobjects with which we connect (not by individual association, but by a\ngeneral law of the mind) certain moral or intellectual attributes; which\nare not, indeed, supposed to exist in the objects themselves, but which,\nby some unknown affinity, they awaken or occasion in us, and which we, in\nour turn, impute to them. However this be, there are multitudes of objects\nin the inanimate world, which we cannot contemplate without associating\nwith them many of the characteristics which we ascribe to the human being;\nand the ideas so awakened we involuntarily express by the ascription of\nsuch significant epithets as _stately, majestic, grand_, and so on. It is\nso with us, when we call some tall forest stately, or qualify as majestic\nsome broad and slowly-winding river, or some vast, yet unbroken waterfall,\nor some solitary, gigantic pine, seeming to disdain the earth, and to hold\nof right its eternal communion with air; or when to the smooth and\nfar-reaching expanse of our inland waters, with their bordering and\nreceding mountains, as they seem to march from the shores, in the pomp of\ntheir dark draperies of wood and mist, we apply the terms _grand_ and\n_magnificent_: and so onward to an endless succession of objects,\nimputing, as it were, our own nature, and lending our sympathies, till the\nheadlong rush of some mighty cataract suddenly thunders upon us. But how\nis it then? In the twinkling of an eye, the outflowing sympathies ebb back\nupon the heart; the whole mind seems severed from earth, and the awful\nfeeling to suspend the breath;--there is nothing human to which we can\nliken it. And here begins another kind of emotion, which we call Sublime.\n\nWe are not aware that this particular class of objects has hitherto\nbeen noticed, at least as holding a distinct position. And, if we\nmay be allowed to supply the omission, we should assign to it the\nintermediate place between the Beautiful and the Sublime. Indeed,\nthere seems to be no other station so peculiarly proper; inasmuch as\nthey would thus form, in a consecutive series, a regular ascent from\nthe sensible material to the invisible spiritual: hence naturally\nuniting into one harmonious whole every possible emotion of our higher\nnature.\n\nIn the preceding discussion, we have considered the outward world\nonly in its immediate relation to Man, and the Human Being as the\npredetermined centre to which it was designed to converge. As the\nsubject, however, of what are called the sublime emotions, he holds a\ndifferent position; for the centre here is not himself, nor, indeed,\ncan he approach it within conceivable distance: yet still he is drawn\nto it, though baffled for ever. Now the question is, Where, and\nin what bias, is this mysterious attraction? It must needs be in\nsomething having a clear affinity with us, or we could not feel it.\nBut the attraction is also both pure and pleasurable; and it has just\nbeen shown, that we have in ourselves but one principle by which\nto recognize any corresponding emotion,--namely, the principle of\nHarmony. May we not then infer a similar Principle without us, an\nInfinite Harmony, to which our own is attracted? and may we not\nfurther,--if we may so speak without irreverence,--suppose our own to\nhave emanated thence when \"man became a living soul\"? And though this\nrelation may not be consciously acknowledged in every instance, or\neven in one, by the mass of men, does it therefore follow that it does\nnot exist? How many things act upon us of which we have no knowledge?\nIf we find, as in the case of the Beautiful, the same, or a similar,\neffect to follow from a great variety of objects which have no\nresemblance or agreement with one another, is it not a necessary\ninference, that for their common effect they must all refer to\nsomething without and distinct from themselves? Now in the case of\nthe Sublime, the something referred to is not in man: for the emotion\nexcited has an outward tendency; the mind cannot contain it; and the\neffort to follow it towards its mysterious object, if long continued,\nbecomes, in the excess of interest, positively painful.\n\nCould any finite object account for this? But, supposing the Infinite,\nwe have an adequate cause. If these emotions, then, from whatever\nobject or circumstance, be to prompt the mind beyond its prescribed\nlimits, whether carrying it back to the primitive past, the\nincomprehensible _beginning_, or sending it into the future, to\nthe unknown _end_, the ever-present Idea of the mighty Author of\nall these mysteries must still be implied, though we think not of it.\nIt is this Idea, or rather its influence, whether we be conscious of\nit or not, which we hold to be the source of every sublime emotion. To\nmake our meaning plainer, we should say, that that which has the power\nof possessing the mind, to the exclusion, for the time, of all other\nthought, and which presents no _comprehensible_ sense of a whole,\nthough still impressing us with a full apprehension of such as a\nreality,--in other words, which cannot be circumscribed by the forms\nof the understanding while it strains them to the utmost,--that we\nshould term a sublime object. But whether this effect be occasioned\ndirectly by the object itself, or be indirectly suggested by its\nrelations to some other object, its unknown cause, it matters not;\nsince the apparent power of calling forth the emotion, by whatever\nmeans, is, _quoad_ ourselves, its sublime condition. Hence, if a\nminute insect, an ant, for instance, through its marvellous instinct,\nlift the mind of the amazed spectator to the still more inscrutable\nCreator, it must possess, as to _him_, the same power. This is,\nindeed, an extreme case, and may be objected to as depending on the\nindividual mind; on a mind prepared by cultivation and previous\nreflection for the effect in question. But to this it may be replied,\nthat some degree of cultivation, or, more properly speaking, of\ndevelopement by the exercise of its reflective faculties, is obviously\nessential ere the mind can attain to mature growth,--we might almost\nsay to its natural state, since nothing can be said to have attained\nits true nature until all its capacities are at least called into\nbirth. No one, for example, would refer to the savages of Australia\nfor a true specimen of what was proper or natural to the human mind;\nwe should rather seek it, if such were the alternative, in a civilized\nchild of five years old. Be this as it may, it will not be denied\nthat ignorance, brutality, and many other deteriorating causes, do\npractically incapacitate thousands for even an approximation, not only\nto this, but to many of the inferior emotions, the character of\nwhich is purely mental. And this, we think, is quite sufficient to\nneutralize the objection, if not, indeed, to justify the application\nof the term to all cases where the _immediate_ effect, whether\ndirectly or indirectly, is such as has been described. But, to reduce\nthis to a common-sense view, it is only saying,--what no one will\ndeny,--that a man of education and refinement has not only more, but\nhigher, pleasures of the mind than a mere clown.\n\nBut though the position here advanced must necessarily exclude many\nobjects which have hitherto, though, as we think, improperly, been\nclassed with the sublime, it will still leave enough, and more than\nenough, for the utmost exercise of our limited powers; inasmuch as, in\naddition to the multitude of objects in the material world, not only\nthe actions, passions, and thoughts of men, but whatever concerns the\nhuman being, that in any way--by a hint merely--leads the mind, though\nindirectly, to the Infinite attributes,--all come of right within the\nground assumed.\n\nIt will be borne in mind, that the conscious presence of the Infinite\nIdea is not only _not_ insisted on, but expressly admitted to be, in\nmost cases, unthought of; it is also admitted, that a sublime effect is\noften powerfully felt in many instances where this Idea could not truly\nbe predicated of the apparent object. In such cases, however, some kind\nof resemblance, or, at least, a seeming analogy to an infinite\nattribute, is nevertheless essential. It must _appear_ to us, for the\ntime, either limitless, indefinite, or in some other way beyond the\ngrasp of the mind: and, whatever an object may _seem_ to be, it must\nneeds _in effect_ be to _us_ even that which it seems. Nor does this\ntransfer the emotion to a different source; for the Infinite Idea, or\nsomething analogous, being thus imputed, is in reality its true cause.\n\nIt is still the unattainable, the _ever-stimulating_, yet\n_ever-eluding_, in the character of the sublime object, that\ngives to it both its term and its effect. And whence the conception of\nthis mysterious character, but from its mysterious prototype, the Idea\nof the Infinite? Neither does it matter, as we have said, whether\nactual or supposed; for what the imagination cannot master will master\nthe imagination. Take, for instance, but a single _passion_, and\nclothe it with this character; in the same instant it becomes sublime.\nSo, too, with a single thought. In the Mosaic words so often quoted,\n\"Let there be light, and there was light,\" we have the sublime of\nthought, of mere naked thought; but what could more awe the mind with\nthe power of God? Of like nature is the conjecture of Newton, when he\nimagined stars so distant from the sun that their coeval light has not\nyet reached us. Let us endeavour for one moment to conceive of this;\ndoes not the soul seem to dilate within us, and the body to shrink\nas to a grain of dust? \"Woe is me! unclean, unclean!\" said the holy\nProphet, when the Infinite Holiness stood before him. Could a more\nterrible distance be measured, than by these fearful words, between\nGod and man?\n\nIf it be objected to this view, that many cases occur, having the same\nconditions with those assumed in our general proposition, which are\nyet exclusively painful, unmitigated even by a transient moment of\npleasure,--in Despair, for instance,--as who can limit it?--to this we\nreply, that no emotion having its sole, or circle of existence in\nthe individual mind itself, can be to that mind other than a\n_subject_. A man in despair, or under any mode of extreme\nsuffering of like nature, may, indeed, if all interfering sympathy\nhave been removed by time or after-description, be to _another_\na sublime object,--at least in one of those suggestive forms just\nnoticed; but not to _himself_. The source of the sublime--as all\nalong implied--is essentially _ab extra_. The human mind is not\nits centre, nor can it be realized except by a contemplative act.\n\nBesides, as a mental pleasure,--indeed the highest known,--to\nbe recognized as such, it must needs be accompanied by the same\n_relative character_ by which is tested every other pleasure\ncoming under that denomination; namely, by the entire absence\nof _self_, that is, by the same freedom from all personal\nconsideration which has been shown to characterize the true effect of\nthe Three leading Ideas already considered. But if to this also it be\nfurther objected, that in certain particular cases, as of\npersonal danger,--from which the sublime emotion has often been\nexperienced,--some personal consideration must necessarily be\ninvolved, as without a sense of security we could not enjoy it; we\nanswer, that, if it be meant only that the mind should be in such a\nstate as to enable us to receive an unembarrassed impression, it seems\nto us superfluous,--an obvious truism placed in opposition to an\nabsurd impossibility. We needed not to be told, that no pleasurable\nemotion is likely to occur while we are unmanned by fear. The same\nmight be said, also, in respect to the Beautiful: for who was ever\nalive to it under a paroxysm of terror, or pain of any kind? A\nterrified person is in any thing but a fit state for such emotion. He\nmay indeed _afterwards_, when his fear is passed off, contemplate\nthe circumstance that occasioned it with a different feeling; but the\nobject of his dismay is _then_ projected, as it were, completely\nfrom himself; and he feels the sublimity in a contemplative state:\nhe can feel it in no other. Nor is that state incompatible with a\nconsciousness of peril, though it can never be with personal terror.\nAnd, if it is meant that we should have a positive, present\nconviction that we are in no danger, this we must deny, as we find it\ncontradicted in innumerable instances. So far, indeed, is a sense of\nsecurity from being essential to the condition of a sublime emotion,\nthat the sense of danger, on the contrary, is one of its most exciting\naccompaniments. There is a fascination in danger which some persons\nneither can nor would resist; which seems, as it were, to disenthral\nthem of self;--as if the mysterious Infinite were actually drawing\nthem on by an invisible power.\n\nWas it mere scientific curiosity that cost the elder Pliny his life?\nMight it not have been rather this sublime fascination? But we have\nrepeated examples of it in our own time. Many who will read this may\nhave been in a storm at sea. Did they never feel its sublimity while\nthey knew their danger? We will answer for ourselves; for we have been\nin one, when the dismasted vessels that surrounded us permitted no\nmistake as to our peril; it was strongly felt, but still stronger was\nthe sublime emotion in the awful scene. The crater of Vesuvius is even\nnow, perhaps for the thousandth time, reflecting from its lake of fire\nsome ghastly face, with indrawn breath and hair bristling, bent, as by\nfate, over its sulphurous brink.\n\nLet us turn to Mont Blanc, that mighty pyramid of ice, in whose shadow\nmight repose all the tombs of the Pharaohs. It rises before the\ntraveller like the accumulating mausoleum of Europe: perhaps he looks\nupon it as his own before his natural time; yet he cannot away from\nit. A terrible charm hurries him over frightful chasms, whose blue\ndepths seem like those of the ocean; he cuts his way up a polished\nprecipice, shining like steel,--as elusive to the touch; he creeps\nslowly and warily around and beneath huge cliffs of snow; now he looks\nup, and sees their brows fretted by the percolating waters like a\nGothic ceiling, and he fears even to whisper, lest an audible breath\nshould awaken the avalanche: and thus he climbs and climbs, till the\ndizzy summit fills up his measure of fearful ecstasy.\n\nNow, though cases may occur where the emotion in question is attended\nwith a sense of security, as in the reading or hearing the description\nof an earthquake, such as that of 1768 in Lisbon, while we are safely\nhoused and by a comfortable fire, it does not therefore follow, that\nthis consciousness of safety is its essential condition. It is merely\nan accidental circumstance. It cannot, therefore, apply, either as a\nrule or an objection. Besides, even if supported by fact, we might\nwell dismiss it on the ground of irrelevancy, since a sense of\npersonal safety cannot be placed in opposition to and as inconsistent\nwith a disinterested or unselfish state; which is that claimed for\nthe emotion as its true condition. If there be not, then, a sounder\nobjection, we may safely admit the characteristic in question; for\nthe reception of which we have, on the other hand, the weight of\nexperience,--at least negatively, since, strictly speaking, we cannot\nexperience the absence of any thing.\n\nBut though, according to our theory, there are many things now called\nsublime that would properly come under a different classification, such\nas many objects of Art, many sentiments, and many actions, which are\nstrictly human, as well in their _end_ as in their origin; it is not to\nbe inferred that the exclusion of any work of man is _because_ of _its\napparent origin_, but of its _end_, the end only being the determining\npoint, as referring to its _Idea_. Now, if the Idea referred to be of\nthe Infinite, which is _out_ of his nature, it cannot strictly be said\nto originate with man,--that is, absolutely; but it is rather, as it\nwere, a reflected form of it from the Maker of his mind. If we are led\nto such an Idea, then, by any work of imagination, a poem, a picture, a\nstatue, or a building, it is as truly sublime as any natural object.\nThis, it appears to us, is the sole mystery, without which neither\nsound, nor color, nor form, nor magnitude, is a true correlative to the\nunseen cause. And here, as with Beauty, though the test of that be\nwithin us, is the _modus operandi_ equally baffling to the scrutiny of\nthe understanding. We feel ourselves, as it were, lifted from the earth,\nand look upon the outward objects that have so affected us, yet learn\nnot how; and the mystery deepens as we compare them with other objects\nfrom which have followed the same effects, and find no resemblance. For\ninstance; the roar of the ocean, and the intricate unity of a Gothic\ncathedral, whose beginning and end are alike intangible, while its\nclimbing tower seems visibly even to rise to the Idea which it strives\nto embody,--these have nothing in common,--hardly two things could be\nnamed that are more unlike; yet in relation to man they have but one\nend: for who can hear the ocean when breathing in wrath, and limit it in\nhis mind, though he think not of Him who gives it voice? or ascend that\nspire without feeling his faculties vanish, as it were with its\nvanishing point, into the abyss of space? If there be a difference in\nthe effect from these and other objects, it is only in the intensity,\nthe degree of impetus given; as between that from the sudden explosion\nof a volcano and from the slow and heavy movement of a rising\nthunder-cloud; its character and its office are the same,--in its awful\nharmony to connect the created with its Infinite Cause.\n\nBut let us compare this effect with that from Beauty. Would the\nParthenon, for instance, with its beautiful forms,--made still more\nbeautiful under its native sky,--seeming almost endued with the breath\nof life, as if its conscious purple were a living suffusion brought\nforth in sympathy by the enamoured blushes of a Grecian sunset;--would\nthis beautiful object even then elevate the soul above its own roof?\nNo: we should be filled with a pure delight,--but with no longing to\nrise still higher. It would satisfy us; which the sublime does not;\nfor the feeling is too vast to be circumscribed by human content.\n\nOn the supernatural it is needless to enlarge; for, in whatever form\nthe beings of the invisible world are supposed to visit us, they are\nimmediately connected in the mind with the unknown Infinite; whether\nthe faith be in the heart or in the imagination; whether they bubble\nup from the earth, like the Witches in Macbeth, taking shape at will,\nor self-dissolving into air, and no less marvellous, foreknowing\nthoughts ere formed in man; or like the Ghost in Hamlet, an\nunsubstantial shadow, having the functions of life, motion, will,\nand speech; a fearful mystery invests them with a spell not to be\nwithstood; the bewildered imagination follows like a child, leaving\nthe finite world for one unknown, till it aches in darkness,\ntrackless, endless.\n\nPerhaps, as being nearest in station to the unsearchable Author of\nall things, the highest example of this would be found in the\nAngelic Nature. If it be objected, that the poets have not always so\nrepresented it, it rests with them to show cause why they have not.\nMilton, no doubt, could have assigned a sufficient reason in _the\ntime chosen for his poem_,--that of the creation of the first man,\nwhen his intercourse with the highest order of created beings was not\nonly essential to the plan of the poem, but according with the express\nwill of the Creator: hence, he might have considered it no violation\nof the _then_ relation between man and angels to assign even the\nepithet _affable_ to the archangel Raphael; for man was then\nsinless, and in all points save knowledge a fit object of regard, and\ncertainly a fit pupil to his heavenly instructor. But, suppose the\npoet, throughout his work, (as in the process of his story he was\nforced to do near the end,)--suppose he had chosen, assuming the\nphilosopher, to assign to Adam the _altered relation of one of his\nfallen posterity_, how could he have endured a holy spiritual\npresence? To be consistent, Adam must have been dumb with awe,\nincapable of holding converse such as is described. Between sinless\nman and his sinful progeny, the distance is immeasurable. And so, too,\nmust be the effect on the latter, in such a presence; and for this\nconclusion we have the authority of Scripture, in the dismay of the\nsoldiers at the Saviour's sepulchre, on which more directly. If there\nbe no like effect attending the other angelic visits recorded in\nScripture, such as those to Lot and Abraham, the reason is obvious in\nthe _special mission_ to those individuals, who were doubtless\n_divinely prepared_ for their reception; for it is reasonable\nto suppose the mission had else been useless. But with the Roman\nsoldiers, where there was no such qualifying circumstance, the case\nwas different; indeed, it was in striking contrast with that of the\ntwo Marys, who, though struck with awe, yet being led there, as\nwitnesses, by the Spirit, were not so overpowered.\n\nAnd here, as the Idea of Angels is universally associated with every\nperfection of _form_, may naturally occur the question so often\nagitated,--namely, whether Beauty and Sublimity are, under any\ncircumstances, compatible. To us it seems of easy solution. For we see\nno reason why Beauty, as the condition of a subordinated object or\ncomponent part, may not incidentally enter into the Sublime, as well\nas a thousand other conditions of opposite characters, which pertain\nto the multifarious assimilants that often form its other components.\n\nWhen Beauty is not made _essential_, but enters as a mere\ncontingent, its admission or rejection is a matter of indifference. In\nan angel, for instance, beauty is the condition of his mere form; but\nthe angel has also an intellectual and moral or spiritual nature,\nwhich is essentially paramount: the former being but the condition, so\nto speak, of his visibility, the latter, his very life,--an Essence\nnext to the inconceivable Giver of life.\n\nCould we stand in the presence of one of these holy beings, (if to\nstand were possible,) what of the Sublime in this lower world would so\nshake us? Though his beauty were such as never mortal dreamed of,\nit would be as nothing,--swallowed up as darkness,--in the awful,\nspiritual brightness of the messenger of God. Even as the soldiers\nin Scripture, at the sepulchre of the Saviour, we should fall before\nhim,--we should \"become,\" like them, \"as dead men.\"\n\nBut though Milton does not unveil the \"face like lightning\"; and\nthough the angel Raphael is made to hold converse with man, and the\n\"severe in youthful beauty\" gives even the individual impress to\nZephon, and Michael and Abdiel are set apart in their prowess; there\nis not one he names that does not breathe of Heaven, that is not\nencompassed with the glory of the Infinite. And why the reader is not\noverwhelmed in their supposed presence is because he is a beholder\n_through_ Adam,--through him also a listener; but whenever he is\nmade, by the poet's spell, to forget Adam, and to see, as it were in\nhis own person, the embattled hosts....\n\nIf we dwell upon Form _alone_, though it should be of surpassing\nbeauty, the idea would not rise above that of man, for this is\nconceivable of man: but the moment the angelic nature is touched, we\nhave the higher ideas of supernal intelligence and perfect holiness,\nto which all the charms and graces of mere form immediately\nbecome subordinate, and, though the beauty remain, its agency is\ncomparatively negative under the overpowering transcendence of a\ncelestial spirit.\n\nAs we have already seen that the Beautiful is limited to no particular\nform, but possesses its power in some mysterious _condition_,\nwhich is applicable to many distinct objects; in like manner does the\nSublime include within its sphere, and subdue to its condition, an\nindefinite variety of objects, with their distinctive conditions; and\namong them we find that of the Beautiful, as well as, to a _certain\ndegree_, its reverse, so that, though we may truly recognize their\ncoexistence in the same object, it is not possible that their effect\nupon us should be otherwise than unequal, and that the higher law\nshould not subordinate the lower. We do not deny that the Beautiful\nmay, so to speak, mitigate the awful intensity of the Sublime; but it\ncannot change its character, much less impart its own; the one will\nstill be awful, the other, of itself, never.\n\nWhen at Rome, we once asked a foreigner, who seemed to be talking\nsomewhat vaguely on the subject, what he understood by the Sublime.\nHis answer was, \"Le plus beau\"; making it only a matter of degree. Now\nlet us only imagine (if we can) a beautiful earthquake, or a beautiful\nhurricane. And yet the foreigner is not alone in this. D'Azzara,\nthe biographer of Mengs, speaking of Beauty, talks of \"this sublime\nquality,\" and in another place, for certain reasons assigned, he says,\n\"The grand style is beautiful.\" Nay, many writers, otherwise of high\nauthority, seem to have taken the same view; while others who could\nhave had no such notion, having used the words Beauty and the\nBeautiful in an allegorical or metaphorical sense, have sometimes been\nmisinterpreted literally. Hence Winckelmann reproaches Michael Angelo\nfor his continual talk about Beauty, when he showed nothing of it\nin his works. But it is very evident that the _Bell\u00e0_ and\n_Bellezza_ of Michael Angelo were never used by him in a literal\nsense, nor intended to be so understood by others: he adopted the\nterms solely to express abstract Perfection, which he allegorized as\nthe mistress of his mind, to whose exclusive worship his whole life\nwas devoted. Whether it was the most appropriate term he could have\nchosen, we shall not inquire. It is certain, however, that the literal\nadoption of it by subsequent writers has been the cause of much\nconfusion, as well as vagueness.\n\nFor ourselves, we are quite at a loss to imagine how a notion so\nobviously groundless has ever had a single supporter; for, if a\ndistinct effect implies a distinct cause, we do not see why distinct\nterms should not be employed to express the difference, or how the\nlegitimate term for one can in any way be applied to signify a\nparticular degree of the other. Like the two Dromios, they sometimes\nrequire a conjurer to tell which is which. If only Perfection, which\nis a generic term implying the summit of all things, be meant,\nthere is surely nothing to be gained (if we except _intended_\nobscurity) by substituting a specific term which is limited to a few.\nWe speak not here of allegorical or metaphorical propriety, which is\nnot now the question, but of the literal and didactic; and we may\nadd, that we have never known but one result from this arbitrary\nunion,--which is, to procreate words.\n\nIn further illustration of our position, it may be well here to notice\none mistaken source of the Sublime, which seems to have been sometimes\nresorted to, both in poems and pictures; namely, in the sympathy\nexcited by excruciating bodily suffering. Suppose a man on the rack\nto be placed before us,--perhaps some miserable victim of the\nInquisition; the cracking of his joints is made frightfully audible;\nhis calamitous \"Ah!\" goes to our marrow; then the cruel precision\nof the mechanical familiar, as he lays bare to the sight his whole\nanatomy of horrors. And suppose, too, the executioner _compelled_\nto his task,--consequently an irresponsible agent, whom we cannot\ncurse; and, finally, that these two objects compose the whole scene.\nWhat could we feel but an agony even like that of the sufferer, the\nonly difference being that one is physical, the other mental? And this\nis all that mere sympathy has any power to effect; it has led us to\nits extreme point,--our flesh creeps, and we turn away with almost\nbodily sickness. But let another actor be added to the drama in the\npresiding Inquisitor, the cool methodizer of this process of torture;\nin an instant the scene is changed, and, strange to say, our feelings\nbecome less painful,--nay, we feel a momentary interest,--from an\ninstant revulsion of our moral nature: we are lost in wonder at the\nexcess of human wickedness, and the hateful wonder, as if partaking of\nthe infinite, now distends the faculties to their utmost tension; for\nwho can set bounds to passion when it seizes the whole soul? It is as\nthe soul itself, without form or limit. We may not think even of the\nafter judgment; we become ourselves _justice_, and we award a\nhatred commensurate with the sin, so indefinite and monstrous that we\nstand aghast at our own judgment.\n\n_Why_ this extreme tension of the mind, when thus outwardly\noccasioned, should create in us an interest, we know not; but such is\nthe fact, and we are not only content to endure it for a time, but\neven crave it, and give to the feeling the epithet _sublime_.\n\nWe do not deny that much bodily suffering may be admitted with effect\nas a subordinate agent, when, as in the example last added, it is made\nto serve as a necessary expositor of moral deformity. Then, indeed,\nin the hands of a great artist, it becomes one of the most powerful\nauxiliaries to a sublime end. All that we contend for is that sympathy\nalone is insufficient as a cause of sublimity.\n\nThere are yet other sources of the false sublime, (if we may so call\nit,) which are sometimes resorted to also by poets and painters; such\nas the horrible, the loathsome, the hideous, and the monstrous: these\nform the impassable boundaries to the true Sublime. Indeed, there\nappears to be in almost every emotion a certain point beyond which we\ncannot pass without recoiling,--as if we instinctively shrunk from\nwhat is forbidden to our nature.\n\nIt would seem, then, that, in relation to man, Beauty is the extreme\npoint, or last summit, of the natural world, since it is in that that\nwe recognize the highest emotion of which we are susceptible from the\npurely physical. If we ascend thence into the moral, we shall find its\ninfluence diminish in the same ratio with our upward progress. In the\ncontinuous chain of creation of which it forms a part, the link above\nit where the moral modification begins seems scarcely changed, yet the\ndifference, though slight, demands another name, and the nomenclator\nwithin us calls it Elegance; in the next connecting link, the moral\nadjunct becomes more predominant, and we call it Majesty; in the next,\nthe physical becomes still fainter, and we call the union Grandeur; in\nthe next, it seems almost to vanish, and a new form rises before us,\nso mysterious, so undefined and elusive to the senses, that we turn,\nas if for its more distinct image, within ourselves, and there, with\nwonder, amazement, awe, we see it filling, distending, stretching\nevery faculty, till, like the Giant of Otranto, it seems almost to\nburst the imagination: under this strange confluence of opposite\nemotions, this terrible pleasure, we call the awful form Sublimity.\nThis was the still, small voice that shook the Prophet on\nHoreb;--though small to his ear, it was more than his imagination\ncould contain; he could not hear it again and live.\n\nIt is not to be supposed that we have enumerated all the forms of\ngradation between the Beautiful and the Sublime; such was not our\npurpose; it is sufficient to have noted the most prominent, leaving\nthe intermediate modifications to be supplied (as they can readily be)\nby the reader. If we descend from the Beautiful, we shall pass in like\nmanner through an equal variety of forms gradually modified by the\ngrosser material influences, as the Handsome, the Pretty, the Comely,\nthe Plain, &c., till we fall to the Ugly.\n\nThere ends the chain of pleasurable excitement; but not the chain of\nForms; which, taking now as if a literal curve, again bends upward,\ntill, meeting the descending extreme of the moral, it seems to\ncomplete the mighty circle. And in this dark segment will be found the\nstartling union of deepening discords,--still deepening, as it rises\nfrom the Ugly to the Loathsome, the Horrible, the Frightful,[1] the\nAppalling.\n\nAs we follow the chain through this last region of disease, misery,\nand sin, of embodied Discord, and feel, as we must, in the mutilated\naffinities of its revolting forms, their fearful relation to this\nfair, harmonious creation,--how does the awful fact, in these its\nbreathing fragments, speak to us of a fallen world!\n\nAs the living centre of this stupendous circle stands the Soul of Man;\nthe _conscious Reality_, to which the vast inclosure is but the\nsymbol. How vast, then, his being! If space could measure it, the\nremotest star would fall within its limits. Well, then, may he tremble\nto essay it even in thought; for where must it carry him,--that winged\nmessenger, fleeter than light? Where but to the confines of the\nInfinite; even to the presence of the unutterable _Life_, on\nwhich nothing finite can look and live?\n\nFinally, we shall conclude our Discourse with a few words on the\nmaster Principle, which we have supposed to be, by the will of the\nCreator, the realizing life to all things fair and true and good: and\nmore especially would we revert to its spiritual purity, emphatically\nmanifested through all its manifold operations,--so impossible\nof alliance with any thing sordid, or false, or wicked,--so\nunapprehensible, even, except for its own most sinless sake. Indeed,\nwe cannot look upon it as other than the universal and eternal witness\nof God's goodness and love, to draw man to himself, and to testify\nto the meanest, most obliquitous mind,--at least once in life, be it\nthough in childhood,--that there _is_ such a thing as _good\nwithout self_. It will be remembered, that, in all the various\nexamples adduced, in which we have endeavoured to illustrate the\noperation of Harmony, there was but one character to all its effects,\nwhatever the difference in the objects that occasioned them; that it\nwas ever untinged with any personal taint: and we concluded thence\nits supernal source. We may now advance another evidence still more\nconclusive of its spiritual origin, namely, in the fact, that it\ncannot be realized in the Human Being _quoad_ himself. With the\nfullest consciousness of the possession of this principle, and with\nthe power to realize it in other objects, he has still no power in\nrelation to himself,--that is, to become the object to himself.\n\nNow, as the condition of Harmony, so far as we can know it through its\neffect, is that of _impletion_, where nothing can be added or\ntaken away, it is evident that such a condition can never be realized\nby the mind in itself. And yet the desire to this end is as evidently\nimplied in that incessant, yet unsatisfying activity, which, under all\ncircumstances, is an imperative, universal law of our nature.\n\nIt might seem needless to enlarge on what must be generally felt as an\nobvious truth; still, it may not be amiss to offer a few remarks, by\nway of bringing it, though a truism, more distinctly before us. In all\nages the majority of mankind have been more or less compelled to some\nkind of exertion for their mere subsistence. Like all compulsion, this\nhas no doubt been considered a hardship. Yet we never find, when by\ntheir own industry, or any fortunate circumstance, they have been\nrelieved from this exigency, that any one individual has been\ncontented with doing nothing. Some, indeed, before their liberation,\nhave conceived of idleness as a kind of synonyme with happiness; but a\nshort experience has never failed to prove it no less remote from that\ndesirable state. The most offensive employments, for the want of\na better, have often been resumed, to relieve the mind from the\nintolerable load of _nothing_,--the heaviest of all weights,--as\nit needs must be to an immortal spirit: for the mind cannot stop,\nexcept it be in a mad-house; there, indeed, it may rest, or rather\nstagnate, on one thought,--its little circle, perhaps of misery. From\nthe very moment of consciousness, the active Principle begins to\nbusy itself with the things about it: it shows itself in the infant,\nstretching its little hands towards the candle; in the schoolboy,\nfilling up, if alone, his play-hour with the mimic toils of after age;\nand so on, through every stage and condition of life; from the wealthy\nspend-thrift, beggaring himself at the gaming-table for employment, to\nthe poor prisoner in the Bastile, who, for the want of something to\noccupy his thoughts, overcame the antipathy of his nature, and found\nhis companion in a spider. Nay, were there need, we might draw out the\ncatalogue till it darkened with suicide. But enough has been said to\nshow, that, aside from guilt, a more terrible fiend has hardly been\nimagined than the little word Nothing, when embodied and realized as\nthe master of the mind. And well for the world that it is so; since to\nthis wise law of our nature, to say nothing of conveniences, we owe\nthe endless sources of innocent enjoyment with which the industry and\ningenuity of man have supplied us.\n\nBut the wisdom of the law in question is not merely that it is a\npreventive to the mind preying on itself; we see in it a higher\npurpose,--no less than what involves the developement of the human\nbeing; and, if we look to its final bearing, it is of the deepest\nimport. It might seem at first a paradox, that, the natural condition\nof the mind being averse to inactivity, it should still have so\nstrong a desire for rest; but a little reflection will show that this\ninvolves no real contradiction. The mind only mistakes the _name_\nof its object, neither rest nor action being its real aim; for in a\nstate of rest it desires action, and in a state of action, rest. Now\nall action supposes a purpose, which purpose can consist of but one\nof two things; either the attainment of some immediate object as its\ncompletion, or the causing of one or more future acts, that shall\nfollow as a consequence. But whether the action terminates in an\nimmediate object, or serves as the procreating cause of an indefinite\nseries of acts, it must have some ultimate object in which it\nends,--or is to end. Even supposing such a series of acts to be\ncontinued through a whole life, and yet remain incomplete, it would\nnot alter the case. It is well known that many such series have\nemployed the minds of mathematicians and astronomers to their last\nhour; nay, that those acts have been taken up by others, and continued\nthrough successive generations: still, whether the point be arrived at\nor no, there must have been an end in contemplation. Now no one can\nbelieve that, in similar cases, any man would voluntarily devote all\nhis days to the adding link after link to an endless chain, for\nthe mere pleasure of labor. It is true he may be aware of the\nwholesomeness of such labor as one of the means of cheerfulness; but,\nif he have no further aim, his being aware of this result makes an\nequable flow of spirits a positive object. Without _hope_,\nuncompelled labor is an impossibility; and hope implies an object. Nor\nwould the veriest idler, who passes a whole day in whittling a stick,\nif he could be brought to look into himself, deny it. So far from\nhaving no object, he would and must acknowledge that he was in\nfact hoping to relieve himself of an oppressive portion of time by\nwhittling away its minutes and hours. Here we have an extreme instance\nof that which constitutes the real business of life, from the most\nidle to the most industrious; namely, to attain to a _satisfying\nstate_.\n\nBut no one will assert that such a state was ever a consequence of the\nattainment of any object, however exalted. And why? Because the motive\nof action is left behind, and we have nothing before us.\n\nSomething to desire, something to look forward to, we _must_\nhave, or we perish,--even of suicidal rest. If we find it not here in\nthe world about us, it must be sought for in another; to which, as we\nconceive, that secret ruler of the soul, the inscrutable, ever-present\nspirit of Harmony, for ever points. Nor is it essential that the\nthought of harmony should even cross the mind; for a want may be\nfelt without any distinct consciousness of the form of that which is\ndesired. And, for the most part, it is only in this negative way that\nits influence is acknowledged. But this is sufficient to account\nfor the universal longing, whether definite or indefinite, and the\nconsequent universal disappointment.\n\nWe have said that man cannot to himself become the object of\nHarmony,--that is, find its proper correlative in himself; and we have\nseen that, in his present state, the position is true. How is it,\nthen, in the world of spirit? Who can answer? And yet, perhaps,--if\nwithout irreverence we might hazard the conjecture,--as a finite\ncreature, having no centre in himself on which to revolve, may it not\nbe that his true correlative will there be revealed (if, indeed, it be\nnot before) to the disembodied man, in the Being that made him? And\nmay it not also follow, that the Principle we speak of will cease to\nbe potential, and flow out, as it were, and harmonize with the\neternal form of Hope,--even that Hope whose living end is in the\nunapproachable Infinite?\n\nLet us suppose this form of hope to be taken away from an immortal\nbeing who has no self-satisfying power within him, what would be\nhis condition? A conscious, interminable vacuum, were such a thing\npossible, would but faintly image it. Hope, then, though in its nature\nunrealizable, is not a mere _notion_; for so long as it continues\nhope, it is to the mind an object and an object _to be_ realized;\nso, where its form is eternal, it cannot but be to it an ever-during\nobject. Hence we may conceive of a never-ending approximation to what\ncan never be realized.\n\nFrom this it would appear, that, while we cannot to ourselves become\nthe object of Harmony, it is nevertheless certain, from the universal\ndesire _so_ to realize it, that we cannot suppress the continual\nimpulse of this paramount Principle; which, therefore, as it seems to\nus, must have a double purpose; first, by its outward manifestation,\nwhich we all recognize, to confirm its reality, and secondly, to\nconvince the mind that its true object is not merely out of, but\nabove, itself,--and only to be found in the Infinite Creator.\n\n\n\n\nArt.\n\n\n\nIn treating on Art, which, in its highest sense, and more especially\nin relation to Painting and Sculpture, is the subject proposed for\nour present examination, the first question that occurs is, In\nwhat consists its peculiar character? or rather, What are the\ncharacteristics that distinguish it from Nature, which it professes to\nimitate?\n\nTo this we reply, that Art is characterized,--\n\nFirst, by Originality.\n\nSecondly, by what we shall call Human or Poetic Truth; which is the\nverifying principle by which we recognize the first.\n\nThirdly, by Invention; the product of the Imagination, as grounded on\nthe first, and verified by the second. And,\n\nFourthly, by Unity, the synthesis of all.\n\nAs the first step to the right understanding of any discourse is a\nclear apprehension of the terms used, we add, that by Originality we\nmean any thing (admitted by the mind as _true_) which is peculiar\nto the Author, and which distinguishes his production from that of\nall others; by Human or Poetic Truth, that which may be said to exist\nexclusively in and for the mind, and as contradistinguished from the\ntruth of things in the natural or external world; by Invention, any\nunpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the combination\nof entire objects already known, or by the union and modification\nof known but fragmentary parts into new and consistent forms; and,\nlastly, by Unity, such an agreement and interdependence of all the\nparts, as shall constitute a whole.\n\nIt will be our attempt to show, that, by the presence or absence of\nany one of these characteristics, we shall be able to affirm or deny\nin respect to the pretension of any object as a work of Art; and also\nthat we shall find within ourselves the corresponding law, or by\nwhatever word we choose to designate it, by which each will be\nrecognized; that is, in the degree proportioned to the developement,\nor active force, of the law so judging.\n\nSupposing the reader to have gone along with us in what has been said of\nthe _Universal_, in our Preliminary Discourse, and as assenting to the\nposition, that any faculty, law, or principle, which can be shown to be\n_essential_ to _any one_ mind, must necessarily be also predicated of\nevery other sound mind, even where the particular faculty or law is so\nfeebly developed as apparently to amount to its absence, in which case\nit is inferred potentially,--we shall now assume, on the same grounds,\nthat the originating _cause_, notwithstanding its apparent absence in\nthe majority of men, is an essential reality in the condition of the\nHuman Being; its potential existence in all being of necessity affirmed\nfrom its existence in one.\n\nAssuming, then, its reality,--or rather leaving it to be evidenced\nfrom its known effects,--we proceed to inquire _in what_ consists\nthis originating power.\n\nAnd, first, as to its most simple form. If it be true, (as we hope to\nset forth more at large in a future discourse,) that no two minds were\never found to be identical, there must then in every individual mind\nbe _something_ which is not in any other. And, if this unknown\nsomething is also found to give its peculiar hue, so to speak,\nto every impression from outward objects, it seems but a natural\ninference, that, whatever it be, it _must_ possess a pervading\nforce over the entire mind,--at least, in relation to what is\nexternal. But, though this may truly be affirmed of man generally,\nfrom its evidence in any one person, we shall be far from the fact,\nshould we therefore affirm, that, otherwise than potentially, the\npower of outwardly manifesting it is also universal. We know that it\nis not,--and our daily experience proves that the power of reproducing\nor giving out the individualized impressions is widely different in\ndifferent men. With some it is so feeble as apparently never to act;\nand, so far as our subject is concerned, it may practically be said\nnot to exist; of which we have abundant examples in other mental\nphenomena, where an imperfect activity often renders the existence of\nsome essential faculty a virtual nullity. When it acts in the higher\ndecrees, so as to make another see or feel _as_ the Individual\nsaw or felt,--this, in relation to Art, is what we mean, in its\nstrictest sense, by Originality. He, therefore, who possesses the\npower of presenting to another the _precise_ images or emotions\nas they existed in himself, presents that which can be found nowhere\nelse, and was first found by and within himself; and, however light or\ntrifling, where these are true as to his own mind, their author is so\nfar an originator.\n\nBut let us take an example, and suppose two _portraits_; simple\nheads, without accessories, that is, with blank backgrounds, such as\nwe often see, where no attempt is made at composition; and both by\nartists of equal talent, employing the same materials, and conducting\ntheir work according to the same technical process. We will also\nsuppose ourselves acquainted with the person represented, with whom\nto compare them. Who, that has ever made a similar comparison, will\nexpect to find them identical? On the contrary, though in all respects\nequal, in execution, likeness, &c., we shall still perceive a certain\n_exclusive something_ that will instantly distinguish the one\nfrom the other, and both from the original. And yet they shall both\nseem to us true. But they will be true to us also in a double sense;\nnamely, as to the living original and as to the individuality of\nthe different painters. Where such is the result, both artists must\noriginate, inasmuch as they both outwardly realize the individual\nimage of their distinctive minds.\n\nNor can the truth they present be ascribed to the technic process,\nwhich we have supposed the same with each; as, on such a supposition,\nwith their equal skill, the result must have been identical. No;\nby whatever it is that one man's mental impression, or his mode of\nthought, is made to differ from another's, it is that something, which\nour imaginary artists have here transferred to their pencil, that\nmakes them different, yet both original.\n\nNow, whether the medium through which the impressions, conceptions, or\nemotions of the mind are thus externally realized be that of colors,\nwords, or any thing else, this mysterious though certain principle is,\nas we believe, the true and only source of all originality.\n\nIn the power of assimilating what is foreign, or external, to our own\nparticular nature consists the individualizing law, and in the power\nof reproducing what is thus modified consists the originating cause.\n\nLet us turn now to an opposite example,--to a mere mechanical copy of\nsome natural object, where the marks in question are wholly wanting.\nWill any one be truly affected by it? We think not; we do not say that\nhe will not praise it,--this he may do from various motives; but his\n_feeling_--if we may so name the index of the law within--will\nnot be called forth to any spontaneous correspondence with the object\nbefore him.\n\nBut why talk of feeling, says the pseudo-connoisseur, where we should\nonly, or at least first, bring knowledge? This is the common cant of\nthose who become critics for the sake of distinction. Let the Artist\navoid them, if he would not disfranchise himself in the suppression\nof that uncompromising _test_ within him, which is the only sure\nguide to the truth without.\n\nIt is a poor ambition to desire the office of a judge merely for\nthe sake of passing sentence. But such an ambition is not likely to\npossess a person of true sensibility. There are some, however, in\nwhom there is no deficiency of sensibility, yet who, either from\nself-distrust, or from some mistaken notion of Art, are easily\npersuaded to give up a right feeling, in exchange for what they may\nsuppose to be knowledge,--the barren knowledge of faults; as if there\ncould be a human production without them! Nevertheless, there is\nlittle to be apprehended from any conventional theory, by one who is\nforewarned of its mere negative power,--that it can, at best, only\nsuppress feeling; for no one ever was, or ever can be, argued into\na real liking for what he has once felt to be false. But, where the\nfeeling is genuine, and not the mere reflex of a popular notion, so\nfar as it goes it must be true. Let no one, therefore, distrust it, to\ntake counsel of his head, when he finds himself standing before a work\nof Art. Does he feel its truth? is the only question,--if, indeed, the\nimpertinence of the understanding should then propound one; which we\nthink it will not, where the feeling is powerful. To such a one, the\ncharacteristic of Art upon which we are now discoursing will force\nits way with the power of light; nor will he ever be in danger of\nmistaking a mechanical copy for a living imitation.\n\nBut we sometimes hear of \"faithful transcripts,\" nay, of fac-similes.\nIf by these be implied neither more nor less than exists in their\noriginals, they must still, in that case, find their true place in\nthe dead category of Copy. Yet we need not be detained by any inquiry\nconcerning the merits of a fac-simile, since we firmly deny that a\nfac-simile, in the true sense of the term, is a thing possible.\n\nThat an absolute identity between any natural object and its represented\nimage is a thing impossible, will hardly be questioned by any one who\nthinks, and will give the subject a moment's reflection; and the\ndifficulty lies in the nature of things, the one being the work of the\nCreator, and the other of the creature. We shall therefore assume as a\nfact, the eternal and insuperable difference between Art and Nature. That\nour pleasure from Art is nevertheless similar, not to say equal, to that\nwhich we derive from Nature, is also a fact established by experience; to\naccount for which we are necessarily led to the admission of another fact,\nnamely, that there exists in Art a _peculiar something_ which we receive\nas equivalent to the admitted difference. Now, whether we call this\nequivalent, individualized truth, or human or poetic truth, it matters\nnot; we know by its _effects_, that some such principle does exist, and\nthat it acts upon us, and in a way corresponding to the operation of that\nwhich we call Truth and Life in the natural world. Of the various laws\ngrowing out of this principle, which take the name of Rules when applied\nto Art, we shall have occasion to speak in a future discourse. At present\nwe shall confine ourselves to the inquiry, how far the difference alluded\nto may be safely allowed in any work professing to be an imitation of\nNature.\n\nThe fact, that truth may subsist with a very considerable admixture\nof falsehood, is too well known to require an argument. However\nreprehensible such an admixture may be in morals, it becomes in Art,\nfrom the limited nature of our powers, a matter of necessity.\n\nFor the same reason, even the realizing of a thought, or that which\nis properly and exclusively human, must ever be imperfect. If Truth,\nthen, form but the greater proportion, it is quite as much as we may\nreasonably look for in a work of Art. But why, it may be asked, where\nthe false predominates, do we still derive pleasure? Simply because of\nthe Truth that remains. If it be further demanded, What is the minimum\nof truth in order to a pleasurable effect? we reply, So much only as\nwill cause us to feel that the truth _exists_. It is this feeling\nalone that determines, not only the true, but the degrees of truth,\nand consequently the degrees of pleasure.\n\nWhere no such feeling is awakened, and supposing no deficiency in the\nrecipient, he may safely, from its absence, pronounce the work false;\nnor could any ingenious theory of the understanding convince him to\nthe contrary. He may, indeed, as some are wont to do, make a random\nguess, and _call_ the work true; but he can never so _feel_\nit by any effort of reasoning. But may not men differ as to their\nimpressions of truth? Certainly as to the degrees of it, and in this\naccording to their sensibility, in which we know that men are not\nequal. By sensibility here we mean the power or capacity of receiving\nimpressions. All men, indeed, with equal organs, may be said in a\ncertain sense to see alike. But will the same natural object,\nconveyed through these organs, leave the same impression? The fact is\notherwise. What, then, causes the difference, if it be not (as before\nobserved) a peculiar something in the individual mind, that modifies\nthe image? If so, there must of necessity be in every true work of\nArt--if we may venture the expression--another, or distinctive, truth.\nTo recognize this, therefore,--as we have elsewhere endeavoured to\nshow,--supposes in the recipient something akin to it. And, though it\nbe in reality but a _sign_ of life, it is still a sign of which\nwe no sooner receive the impress, than, by a law of our mind, we feel\nit to be acting upon our thoughts and sympathies, without our knowing\nhow or wherefore. Admitting, therefore, the corresponding instinct,\nor whatever else it may be called, to vary in men,--which there is no\nreason to doubt,--the solution of their unequal impression appears at\nonce. Hence it would be no extravagant metaphor, should we affirm that\nsome persons see more with their minds than others with their eyes.\nNay, it must be obvious to all who are conversant with Art, that\nmuch, if not the greater part, in its higher branches is especially\naddressed to this mental vision. And it is very certain, if there were\nno truth beyond the reach of the senses, that little would remain to\nus of what we now consider our highest and most refined pleasure.\n\nBut it must not be inferred that originality consists in any\ncontradiction to Nature; for, were this allowed and carried out, it\nwould bring us to the conclusion, that, the greater the contradiction,\nthe higher the Art. We insist only on the modification of the natural\nby the personal; for Nature is, and ever must be, at least the\nsensuous ground of all Art: and where the outward and inward are\nso united that we cannot separate them, there shall we find the\nperfection of Art. So complete a union has, perhaps, never been\naccomplished, and _may_ be impossible; it is certain, however,\nthat no approach to excellence can ever be made, if the _idea_ of\nsuch a union be not constantly looked to by the artist as his ultimate\naim. Nor can the idea be admitted without supposing a _third_ as\nthe product of the two,--which we call Art; between which and Nature,\nin its strictest sense, there must ever be a difference; indeed, a\n_difference with resemblance_ is that which constitutes its\nessential condition.\n\nIt has doubtless been observed, that, in this inquiry concerning the\nnature and operation of the first characteristic, the presence of the\nsecond, or verifying principle, has been all along implied; nor could\nit be otherwise, because of their mutual dependence. Still more will\nits active agency be supposed in our examination of the third, namely,\nInvention. But before we proceed to that, the paramount index of the\nhighest art, it may not be amiss to obtain, if possible, some distinct\napprehension of what we have termed Poetic Truth; to which, it will be\nremembered, was also prefixed the epithet Human, our object therein\nbeing to prepare the mind, by a single word, for its peculiar sphere;\nand we think it applicable also for a more important reason,\nnamely, that this kind of Truth is the _true ground of the\npoetical_,--for in what consists the poetry of the natural world,\nif not in the sentiment and reacting life it receives from the human\nfancy and affections? And, until it can be shown that sentiment and\nfancy are also shared by the brute creation, this seeming effluence\nfrom the beautiful in nature must rightfully revert to man. What, for\ninstance, can we suppose to be the effect of the purple haze of a\nsummer sunset on the cows and sheep, or even on the more delicate\ninhabitants of the air? From what we know of their habits, we\ncannot suppose more than the mere physical enjoyment of its genial\ntemperature. But how is it with the poet, whom we shall suppose\nan object in the same scene, stretched on the same bank with the\nruminating cattle, and basking in the same light that flickers from\nthe skimming birds. Does he feel nothing more than the genial warmth?\nAsk him, and he perhaps will say,--\"This is my soul's hour; this\npurpled air the heart's atmosphere, melting by its breath the sealed\nfountains of love, which the cold commonplace of the world had frozen:\nI feel them gushing forth on every thing around me; and how worthy of\nlove now appear to me these innocent animals, nay, these whispering\nleaves, that seem to kiss the passing air, and blush the while at\ntheir own fondness! Surely they are happy, and grateful too that they\nare so; for hark! how the little birds send up their song of praise!\nand see how the waving trees and waving grass, in mute accordance,\nkeep time with the hymn!\"\n\nThis is but one of the thousand forms in which the human spirit is\nwont to effuse itself on the things without, making to the mind a\nnew and fairer world,--even the shadowing of that which its immortal\ncraving will sometimes dream of in the unknown future. Nay, there\nis scarcely an object so familiar or humble, that its magical touch\ncannot invest it with some poetic charm. Let us take an extreme\ninstance,--a pig in his sty. The painter, Morland, was able to convert\neven this disgusting object into a source of pleasure,--and a pleasure\nas real as any that is known to the palate.\n\nLeaving this to have the weight it may be found to deserve, we turn\nto the original question; namely, What do we mean by Human or Poetic\nTruth?\n\nWhen, in respect to certain objects, the effects are found to be\nuniformly of the same kind, not only upon ourselves, but also upon\nothers, we may reasonably infer that the efficient cause is of one\nnature, and that its uniformity is a necessary result. And, when we also\nfind that these effects, though differing in degree, are yet uniform in\ntheir character, while they seem to proceed from objects which in\nthemselves are indefinitely variant, both in kind and degree, we are\nstill more forcibly drawn to the conclusion, that the _cause_ is not\nonly _one_, but not inherent in the object.[2] The question now arises,\nWhat, then, is that which seems to us so like an _alter et idem_,--which\nappears to act upon, and is recognized by us, through an animal, a bird,\na tree, and a thousand different, nay, opposing objects, in the same\nway, and to the same end? The inference follows of necessity, that the\nmysterious cause must be in some general law, which is absolute and\n_imperative_ in relation to every such object under certain conditions.\nAnd we receive the solution as true,--because we cannot help it. The\nreality, then, of such a law becomes a fixture in the mind.\n\nBut we do not stop here: we would know something concerning the\nconditions supposed. And in order to this, we go back to the effect.\nAnd the answer is returned in the form of a question,--May it not\nbe something _from ourselves_, which is reflected back by the\nobject,--something with which, as it were, we imbue the object, making\nit correspond to a _reality_ within us? Now we recognize the\nreality within; we recognize it also in the object,--and the affirming\nlight flashes upon us, not in the form of _deduction_, but of\ninherent Truth, which we cannot get rid of; and we _call_ it\nTruth,--for it will take no other name.\n\nIt now remains to discover, so to speak, its location. In what part,\nthen, of man may this self-evidenced, yet elusive, Truth or power be\nsaid to reside? It cannot be in the senses; for the senses can impart\nno more than they receive. Is it, then, in the mind? Here we are\ncompelled to ask, What is understood by the mind? Do we mean the\nunderstanding? We can trace no relation between the Truth we would\nclass and the reflective faculties. Or in the moral principle? Surely\nnot; for we can predicate neither good nor evil by the Truth in\nquestion. Finally, do we find it identified with the truth of\nthe Spirit? But what is the truth of the Spirit but the Spirit\nitself,--the conscious _I_? which is never even thought of in\nconnection with it. In what form, then, shall we recognize it? In\nits own,--the form of Life,--the life of the Human Being; that\nself-projecting, realizing power, which is ever present, ever acting\nand giving judgment on the instant on all things corresponding with\nits inscrutable self. We now assign it a distinctive epithet, and call\nit Human.\n\nIt is a common saying, that there is more in a name than we are apt\nto imagine. And the saying is not without reason; for when the name\nhappens to be the true one, being proved in its application, it\nbecomes no unimportant indicator as to the particular offices for\nwhich the thing named was designed. So we find it with respect to the\nTruth of which we speak; its distinctive epithet marking out to us, as\nits sphere of action, the mysterious intercourse between man and man;\nwhether the medium consist in words or colors, in thought or form, or\nin any thing else on which the human agent may impress, be it in a\nsign only, his own marvellous life. As to the process or _modus\noperandi_, it were a vain endeavour to seek it out: that divine\nsecret must ever to man be an humbling darkness. It is enough for him\nto know that there is that within him which is ever answering to that\nwithout, as life to life,--which must be life, and which must be true.\n\nWe proceed now to the third characteristic. It has already been\nstated, in the general definition, what we would be understood to mean\nby the term Invention, in its particular relation to Art; namely, any\nunpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the combination\nof forms already known, or by the union and modification of known\nbut fragmentary parts into a new and consistent whole: in both cases\ntested by the two preceding characteristics.\n\nWe shall consider first that division of the subject which stands first\nin order,--the Invention which consists in the new combination of known\nforms. This may be said to be governed by its exclusive relation either\nto _what is_, or _has been_, or, when limited by the _probable_, to what\nstrictly may be. It may therefore be distinguished by the term Natural.\nBut though we so name it, inasmuch as all its forms have their\nprototypes in the Actual, it must still be remembered that these\nexisting forms do substantially constitute no more than mere _parts_ to\nbe combined into a _whole_, for which Nature has provided no original.\nFor examples in this, the most comprehensive class, we need not refer\nto any particular school; they are to be found in all and in every\ngallery: from the histories of Raffaelle, the landscapes of Claude and\nPoussin and others, to the familiar scenes of Jan Steen, Ostade, and\nBrower. In each of these an adherence to the actual, if not strictly\nobserved, is at least supposed in all its parts; not so in the whole, as\nthat relates to the probable; by which we mean such a result as _would\nbe_ true, were the same combination to occur in nature. Nor must we be\nunderstood to mean, by adherence to the actual, that one part is to be\ntaken for an exact portrait; we mean only such an imitation as precludes\nan intentional deviation from already existing and known forms.\n\nIt must be very obvious, that, in classing together any of the\nproductions of the artists above named, it cannot be intended to\nreduce them to a level; such an attempt (did our argument require it)\nmust instantly revolt the common sense and feeling of every one at all\nacquainted with Art. And therefore, perhaps, it may be thought that\ntheir striking difference, both in kind and degree, might justly call\nfor some further division. But admitting, as all must, a wide, nay,\nalmost impassable, interval between the familiar subjects of the lower\nDutch and Flemish painters, and the higher intellectual works of the\ngreat Italian masters, we see no reason why they may not be left to\ndraw their own line of demarcation as to their respective provinces,\neven as is every day done by actual objects; which are all equally\nnatural, though widely differenced as well in kind as in quality. It\nis no degradation to the greatest genius to say of him and of the most\nunlettered boor, that they are both men.\n\nBesides, as a more minute division would be wholly irrelevant to the\npresent purpose, we shall defer the examination of their individual\ndifferences to another occasion. In order, however, more distinctly to\nexhibit their common ground of Invention, we will briefly examine a\npicture by Ostade, and then compare it with one by Raffaelle, than\nwhom no two artists could well be imagined having less in common.\n\nThe interior of a Dutch cottage forms the scene of Ostade's work,\npresenting something between a kitchen and a stable. Its principal\nobject is the carcass of a hog, newly washed and hung up to dry;\nsubordinate to which is a woman nursing an infant; the accessories,\nvarious garments, pots, kettles, and other culinary utensils.\n\nThe bare enumeration of these coarse materials would naturally\npredispose the mind of one, unacquainted with the Dutch school, to\nexpect any thing but pleasure; indifference, not to say disgust, would\nseem to be the only possible impression from a picture composed of\nsuch ingredients. And such, indeed, would be their effect under the\nhand of any but a real Artist. Let us look into the picture and follow\nOstade's _mind_, as it leaves its impress on the several objects.\nObserve how he spreads his principal light, from the suspended carcass\nto the surrounding objects, moulding it, so to speak, into agreeable\nshapes, here by extending it to a bit of drapery, there to an earthen\npot; then connecting it, by the flash from a brass kettle, with his\nsecond light, the woman and child; and again turning the eye into\nthe dark recesses through a labyrinth of broken chairs, old baskets,\nroosting fowls, and bits of straw, till a glimpse of sunshine, from\na half-open window, gleams on the eye, as it were, like an echo, and\nsending it back to the principal object, which now seems to act on the\nmind as the luminous source of all these diverging lights. But the\nmagical whole is not yet completed; the mystery of color has been\ncalled in to the aid of light, and so subtly blends that we can hardly\nseparate them; at least, until their united effect has first been\nfelt, and after we have begun the process of cold analysis. Yet even\nthen we cannot long proceed before we find the charm returning; as we\npass from the blaze of light on the carcass, where all the tints of\nthe prism seem to be faintly subdued, we are met on its borders by the\ndark harslet, glowing like rubies; then we repose awhile on the white\ncap and kerchief of the nursing mother; then we are roused again by\nthe flickering strife of the antagonist colors on a blue jacket and\nred petticoat; then the strife is softened by the low yellow of a\nstraw-bottomed chair; and thus with alternating excitement and repose\ndo we travel through the picture, till the scientific explorer loses\nthe analyst in the unresisting passiveness of a poetic dream. Now\nall this will no doubt appear to many, if not absurd, at least\nexaggerated: but not so to those who have ever felt the sorcery of\ncolor. They, we are sure, will be the last to question the character\nof the feeling because of the ingredients which worked the spell,\nand, if true to themselves, they must call it poetry. Nor will they\nconsider it any disparagement to the all-accomplished Raffaelle to say\nof Ostade that he also was an Artist.\n\nWe turn now to a work of the great Italian,--the Death of Ananias.\nThe scene is laid in a plain apartment, which is wholly devoid of\nornament, as became the hall of audience of the primitive Christians.\nThe Apostles (then eleven in number) have assembled to transact the\ntemporal business of the Church, and are standing together on a\nslightly elevated platform, about which, in various attitudes, some\nstanding, others kneeling, is gathered a promiscuous assemblage of\ntheir new converts, male and female. This quiet assembly (for we still\nfeel its quietness in the midst of the awful judgment) is suddenly\nroused by the sudden fall of one of their brethren; some of them turn\nand see him struggling in the agonies of death. A moment before he was\nin the vigor of life,--as his muscular limbs still bear evidence;\nbut he had uttered a falsehood, and an instant after his frame is\nconvulsed from head to foot. Nor do we doubt for a moment as to the\nawful cause: it is almost expressed in voice by those nearest to\nhim, and, though varied by their different temperaments, by terror,\nastonishment, and submissive faith, this voice has yet but one\nmeaning,--\"Ananias has lied to the Holy Ghost.\" The terrible words, as\nif audible to the mind, now direct us to him who pronounced his doom,\nand the singly-raised finger of the Apostle marks him the judge; yet\nnot of himself,--for neither his attitude, air, nor expression has\nany thing in unison with the impetuous Peter,--he is now the simple,\npassive, yet awful instrument of the Almighty: while another on the\nright, with equal calmness, though with more severity, by his elevated\narm, as beckoning to judgment, anticipates the fate of the entering\nSapphira. Yet all is not done; lest a question remain, the Apostle on\nthe left confirms the judgment. No one can mistake what passes within\nhim; like one transfixed in adoration, his uplifted eyes seem to ray\nout his soul, as if in recognition of the divine tribunal. But the\noverpowering thought of Omnipotence is now tempered by the human\nsympathy of his companion, whose open hands, connecting the past with\nthe present, seem almost to articulate, \"Alas, my brother!\" By this\nexquisite turn, we are next brought to John, the gentle almoner of the\nChurch, who is dealing out their portions to the needy brethren. And\nhere, as most remote from the judged Ananias, whose suffering seems\nnot yet to have reached it, we find a spot of repose,--not to pass by,\nbut to linger upon, till we feel its quiet influence diffusing itself\nover the whole mind; nay, till, connecting it with the beloved\nDisciple, we find it leading us back through the exciting scene,\nmodifying even our deepest emotions with a kindred tranquillity.\n\nThis is Invention; we have not moved a step through the picture but at\nthe will of the Artist. He invented the chain which we have followed,\nlink by link, through every emotion, assimilating many into one; and\nthis is the secret by which he prepared us, without exciting horror,\nto contemplate the struggle of mortal agony.\n\nThis too is Art; and the highest art, when thus the awful power,\nwithout losing its character, is tempered, as it were, to our\nmysterious desires. In the work of Ostade, we see the same inventive\npower, no less effective, though acting through the medium of the\nhumblest materials.\n\nWe have now exhibited two pictures, and by two painters who may be\nsaid to stand at opposite poles. And yet, widely apart as are their\napparent stations, they are nevertheless tenants of the same ground,\nnamely, actual nature; the only difference being, that one is\nthe sovereign of the purely physical, the other of the moral and\nintellectual, while their common medium is the catholic ground of the\nimagination.\n\nWe do not fear either skeptical demur or direct contradiction, when\nwe assert that the imagination is as much the medium of the homely\nOstade, as of the refined Raffaelle. For what is that, which has just\nwrapped us as in a spell when we entered his humble cottage,--which,\nas we wandered through it, invested the coarsest object with a\nstrange charm? Was it the _truth_ of these objects that we there\nacknowledged? In part, certainly, but not simply the truth that\nbelongs to their originals; it was the truth of his own individual\nmind superadded to that of nature, nay, clothed upon besides by his\nimagination, imbuing it with all the poetic hues which float in the\nopposite regions of night and day, and which only a poet can mingle\nand make visible in one pervading atmosphere. To all this our own\nminds, our own imaginations, respond, and we pronounce it true to\nboth. We have no other rule, and well may the artists of every age and\ncountry thank the great Lawgiver that there _is no other_. The\ndespised _feeling_ which the schools have scouted is yet the\nmother of that science of which they vainly boast. But of this we may\nhave more to say in another place.\n\nWe shall now ascend from the _probable_ to the _possible_,\nto that branch of Invention whose proper office is from the known but\nfragmentary to realize the unknown; in other words, to embody the\npossible, having its sphere of action in the world of Ideas. To this\nclass, therefore, may properly be assigned the term _Ideal_.\n\nAnd here, as being its most important scene, it will be necessary to\ntake a more particular view of the verifying principle, the agent, so\nto speak, that gives reality to the inward, when outwardly manifested.\n\nNow, whether we call this Human or Poetic Truth, or _inward\nlife_, it matters not; we know by _its effects_, (as we have\nalready said, and we now repeat,) that some such principle does exist,\nand that it acts upon us, and in a way analogous to the operation of\nthat which we call truth and life in the world about us. And that the\ncause of this analogy is a real affinity between the two powers seems\nto us confirmed, not only _positively_ by this acknowledged\nfact, but also _negatively_ by the absence of the effect above\nmentioned in all those productions of the mind which we pronounce\nunnatural. It is therefore in effect, or _quoad_ ourselves, both\ntruth and life, addressed, if we may use the expression, to that\ninscrutable _instinct_ of the imagination which conducts us to\nthe knowledge of all invisible realities.\n\nA distinct apprehension of the reality and of the office of this\nimportant principle, we cannot but think, will enable us to ascertain\nwith some degree of precision, at least so far as relates to art,\nthe true limits of the Possible,--the sphere, as premised, of Ideal\nInvention.\n\nAs to what some have called our _creative_ powers, we take it\nfor granted that no correct thinker has ever applied such expressions\nliterally. Strictly speaking, we can _make_ nothing: we can\nonly construct. But how vast a theatre is here laid open to the\nconstructive powers of the finite creature; where the physical eye is\npermitted to travel for millions and millions of miles, while that of\nthe mind may, swifter than light, follow out the journey, from star to\nstar, till it falls back on itself with the humbling conviction that\nthe measureless journey is then but begun! It is needless to dwell on\nthe immeasurable mass of materials which a world like this may supply\nto the Artist.\n\nThe very thought of its vastness darkens into wonder. Yet how much\ndeeper the wonder, when the created mind looks into itself, and\ncontemplates the power of impressing its thoughts on all things\nvisible; nay, of giving the likeness of life to things inanimate; and,\nstill more marvellous, by the mere combination of words or colors, of\nevolving into shape its own Idea, till some unknown form, having no\ntype in the actual, is made to seem to us an organized being. When\nsuch is the result of any unknown combination, then it is that we\nachieve the Possible. And here the Realizing Principle may strictly be\nsaid to prove itself.\n\nThat such an effect should follow a cause which we know to be purely\nimaginary, supposes, as we have said, something in ourselves which\nholds, of necessity, a predetermined relation to every object either\noutwardly existing or projected from the mind, which we thus recognize\nas true. If so, then the Possible and the Ideal are convertible terms;\nhaving their existence, _ab initio_, in the nature of the mind.\nThe soundness of this inference is also supported negatively, as just\nobserved, by the opposite result, as in the case of those fantastic\ncombinations, which we sometimes meet with both in Poetry and\nPainting, and which we do not hesitate to pronounce unnatural, that\nis, false.\n\nAnd here we would not be understood as implying the pre\u00ebxistence of\nall possible forms, as so many _patterns_, but only of that\nconstructive Power which imparts its own Truth to the unseen\n_real_, and, under certain conditions, reflects the image or\nsemblance of its truth on all things imagined; and which must be\nassumed in order to account for the phenomena presented in the\nfrequent coincident effect between the real and the feigned. Nor does\nthe absence of consciousness in particular individuals, as to this\nPower in themselves, fairly affect its universality, at least\npotentially: since by the same rule there would be equal ground for\ndenying the existence of any faculty of the mind which is of slow or\ngradual developement; all that we may reasonably infer in such cases\nis, that the whole mind is not yet revealed to itself. In some of the\ngreatest artists, the inventive powers have been of late developement;\nas in Claude, and the sculptor Falconet. And can any one believe that,\nwhile the latter was hewing his master's marble, and the former making\npastry, either of them was conscious of the sublime Ideas which\nafterwards took form for the admiration of the world? When Raffaelle,\nthen a youth, was selected to execute the noble works which now live\non the walls of the Vatican, \"he had done little or nothing,\" says\nReynolds, \"to justify so high a trust.\" Nor could he have been\ncertain, from what he knew of himself, that he was equal to the task.\nHe could only hope to succeed; and his hope was no doubt founded on\nhis experience of the progressive developement of his mind in former\nefforts; rationally concluding, that the originally seeming blank\nfrom which had arisen so many admirable forms was still teeming with\nothers, that only wanted the occasion, or excitement, to come forth at\nhis bidding.\n\nTo return to that which, as the interpreting medium of his thoughts\nand conceptions, connects the artist with his fellow-men, we remark,\nthat only on the ground of some self-realizing power, like what\nwe have termed Poetic Truth, could what we call the Ideal ever be\nintelligible.\n\nThat some such power is inherent and fundamental in our nature, though\ndifferenced in individuals by more or less activity, seems more\nespecially confirmed in this latter branch of the subject, where the\nphenomena presented are exclusively of the Possible. Indeed, we cannot\nconceive how without it there could ever be such a thing as true Art;\nfor what might be received as such in one age might also be overruled\nin the next: as we know to be the case with most things depending on\nopinion. But, happily for Art, if once established on this immutable\nbase, there it must rest: and rest unchanged, amidst the endless\nfluctuations of manners, habits, and opinions; for its truth of\na thousand years is as the truth of yesterday. Hence the beings\ndescribed by Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton are as true to us now, as\nthe recent characters of Scott. Nor is it the least characteristic\nof this important Truth, that the only thing needed for its full\nreception is simply its presence,--being its own evidence.\n\nHow otherwise could such a being as Caliban ever be true to us? We have\nnever seen his race; nay, we knew not that such a creature _could_\nexist, until he started upon us from the mind of Shakspeare. Yet who\never stopped to ask if he were a real being? His existence to the mind\nis instantly felt;--not as a matter of faith, but of fact, and a fact,\ntoo, which the imagination cannot get rid of if it would, but which must\never remain there, verifying itself, from the first to the last moment\nof consciousness. From whatever point we view this singular creature,\nhis reality is felt. His very language, his habits, his feelings,\nwhenever they recur to us, are all issues from a living thing, acting\nupon us, nay, forcing the mind, in some instances, even to speculate on\nhis nature, till it finds itself classing him in the chain of being as\nthe intermediate link between man and the brute. And this we do, not by\nan ingenious effort, but almost by involuntary induction; for we\nperceive speech and intellect, and yet without a soul. What but an\nintellectual brute could have uttered the imprecations of Caliban? They\nwould not be natural in man, whether savage or civilized. Hear him, in\nhis wrath against Prospero and Miranda:--\n\n  \"A wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed\n  With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,\n  Light on you both!\"\n\nThe wild malignity of this curse, fierce as it is, yet wants the moral\nvenom, the devilish leaven, of a consenting spirit: it is all but\nhuman.\n\nTo this we may add a similar example, from our own art, in the Puck,\nor Robin Goodfellow, of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Who can look at this\nexquisite little creature, seated on its toadstool cushion, and not\nacknowledge its prerogative of life,--that mysterious influence which\nin spite of the stubborn understanding masters the mind,--sending\nit back to days long past, when care was but a dream, and its most\nserious business a childish frolic? But we no longer think of\nchildhood as the past, still less as an abstraction; we see it\nembodied before us, in all its mirth and fun and glee; and the grave\nman becomes again a child, to feel as a child, and to follow the\nlittle enchanter through all his wiles and never-ending labyrinth of\npranks. What can be real, if that is not which so takes us out of\nour present selves, that the weight of years falls from us as a\ngarment,--that the freshness of life seems to begin anew, and the\nheart and the fancy, resuming their first joyous consciousness, to\nlaunch again into this moving world, as on a sunny sea, whose pliant\nwaves yield to the touch, yet, sparkling and buoyant, carry them\nonward in their merry gambols? Where all the purposes of reality are\nanswered, if there be no philosophy in admitting, we see no wisdom in\ndisputing it.\n\nOf the immutable nature of this peculiar Truth, we have a like\ninstance in the Farnese Hercules; the work of the Grecian sculptor\nGlycon,--we had almost said his immortal offspring. Since the time of\nits birth, cities and empires, even whole nations, have disappeared,\ngiving place to others, more or less barbarous or civilized; yet these\nare as nothing to the countless revolutions which have marked\nthe interval in the manners, habits, and opinions of men. Is it\nreasonable, then, to suppose that any thing not immutable in its\nnature could possibly have withstood such continual fluctuation?\nBut how have all these changes affected this _visible image of\nTruth_? In no wise; not a jot; and because what is _true_ is\nindependent of opinion: it is the same to us now as it was to the men\nof the dust of antiquity. The unlearned spectator of the present day\nmay not, indeed, see in it the Demigod of Greece; but he can never\nmistake it for a mere exaggeration of the human form; though of mortal\nmould, he cannot doubt its possession of more than mortal powers; he\nfeels its _essential life_, for he feels before it as in the\nstirring presence of a superior being.\n\nPerhaps the attempt to give form and substance to a pure Idea was\nnever so perfectly accomplished as in this wonderful figure. Who has\never seen the ocean in repose, in its awful sleep, that smooths it\nlike glass, yet cannot level its unfathomed swell? So seems to us the\nrepose of this tremendous personification of strength: the laboring\neye heaves on its slumbering sea of muscles, and trembles like a skiff\nas it passes over them: but the silent intimations of the spirit\nbeneath at length become audible; the startled imagination hears it\nin its rage, sees it in motion, and sees its resistless might in\nthe passive wrecks that follow the uproar. And this from a piece of\nmarble, cold, immovable, lifeless! Surely there is that in man, which\nthe senses cannot reach, nor the plumb of the understanding sound.\n\nLet us turn now to the Apollo called Belvedere. In this supernal\nbeing, the human form seems to have been assumed as if to make visible\nthe harmonious confluence of the pure ideas of grace, fleetness, and\nmajesty; nor do we think it too fanciful to add celestial splendor;\nfor such, in effect, are the thoughts which crowd, or rather rush,\ninto the mind on first beholding it. Who that saw it in what may be\ncalled the place of its glory, the Gallery of Napoleon, ever thought\nof it as a man, much less as a statue; but did not feel rather as if\nthe vision before him were of another world,--of one who had just\nlighted on the earth, and with a step so ethereal, that the next\ninstant he would vault into the air? If I may be permitted to recall\nthe impression which it made on myself, I know not that I could better\ndescribe it than as a sudden intellectual flash, filling the whole\nmind with light,--and light in motion. It seemed to the mind what the\nfirst sight of the sun is to the senses, as it emerges from the ocean;\nwhen from a point of light the whole orb at once appears to bound from\nthe waters, and to dart its rays, as by a visible explosion, through\nthe profound of space. But, as the deified Sun, how completely is the\nconception verified in the thoughts that follow the effulgent original\nand its marble counterpart! Perennial youth, perennial brightness,\nfollow them both. Who can imagine the old age of the sun? As soon\nmay we think of an old Apollo. Now all this may be ascribed to the\nimagination of the beholder. Granted,--yet will it not thus be\nexplained away. For that is the very faculty addressed by every work\nof Genius,--whose nature is _suggestive_; and only when it\nexcites to or awakens congenial thoughts and emotions, filling the\nimagination with corresponding images, does it attain its proper end.\nThe false and the commonplace can never do this.\n\nIt were easy to multiply similar examples; the bare mention of a\nsingle name in modern art might conjure up a host,--the name of\nMichael Angelo, the mighty sovereign of the Ideal, than whom no one\never trod so near, yet so securely, the dizzy brink of the Impossible.\n\nOf Unity, the fourth and last characteristic, we shall say but little;\nfor we know in truth little or nothing of the law which governs\nit: indeed, all that we know but amounts to this,--that, wherever\nexisting, it presents to the mind the Idea of a Whole,--which is\nitself a mystery. For what answer can we give to the question, What\nis a Whole? If we reply, That which has neither more nor less than it\nought to have, we do not advance a step towards a definite notion; for\nthe _rule_ (if there be one) is yet undiscovered, by which\nto measure either the too much or the too little. Nevertheless,\nincomprehensible as it certainly is, it is what the mind will not\ndispense with in a work of Art; nay, it will not concede even a right\nto the name to any production where this is wanting. Nor is it a sound\nobjection, that we also receive pleasure from many things which seem\nto us fragmentary; for instance, from actual views in Nature,--as we\nshall hope to show in another place. It is sufficient at present,\nthat, in relation to Art, the law of the imagination demands a whole;\nin order to which not a single part must be felt to be wanting; all\nmust be there, however imperfectly rendered; nay, such is the craving\nof this active faculty, that, be they but mere hints, it will often\nfill them out to the desired end; the only condition being, that the\npart hinted be founded in truth. It is well known to artists, that a\nsketch, consisting of little more than hints, will frequently produce\nthe desired effect, and by the same means,--the hints being true so\nfar as expressed, and without an hiatus. But let the artist attempt to\n_finish_ his sketch, that is, to fill out the parts, and suppose\nhim deficient in the necessary skill, the consequence must be, that\nthe true hints, becoming transformed to elaborate falsehoods, will\nbe all at variance, while the revolted imagination turns away with\ndisgust. Nor is this a thing of rare occurrence: indeed, he is a most\nfortunate artist, who has never had to deplore a well-hinted whole\nthus reduced to fragments.\n\nThese are facts; from which we may learn, that with less than a whole,\neither already wrought, or so indicated that the excited imagination\ncan of itself complete it, no genuine response will ever be given to\nany production of man. And we learn from it also this twofold truth;\nfirst, that the Idea of a Whole contains in itself a pre\u00ebxisting law;\nand, secondly, that Art, the peculiar product of the Imagination, is\none of its true and predetermined ends.\n\nAs to its practical application, it were fruitless to speculate. It\napplies itself, even as truth, both in action and reaction, verifying\nitself: and our minds submit, as if it had said, There is nothing\nwanting; so, in the converse, its dictum is absolute when it announces\na deficiency.\n\nTo return to the objection, that we often receive pleasure from many\nthings in Nature which seem to us fragmentary, we observe, that nothing in\nNature can be fragmentary, except in the seeming, and then, too, to the\nunderstanding only,--to the feelings never; for a grain of sand, no less\nthan a planet, being an essential part of that mighty whole which we call\nthe universe, cannot be separated from the Idea of the world without a\npositive act of the reflective faculties, an act of volition; but until\nthen even a grain of sand cannot cease to imply it. To the mere\nunderstanding, indeed, even the greatest extent of actual objects which\nthe finite creature can possibly imagine must ever fall short of the vast\nworks of the Creator. Yet we nevertheless can, and do, apprehend the\nexistence of the universe. Now we would ask here, whether the influence of\na _real_,--and the epithet here is not unimportant,--whether the influence\nof a real Whole is at no time felt without an act of consciousness, that\nis, without thinking of a whole. Is this impossible? Is it altogether out\nof experience? We have already shown (as we think) that no _unmodified\ncopy_ of actual objects, whether single or multifarious, ever satisfies\nthe imagination,--which imperatively demands a something more, or at least\ndifferent. And yet we often find that the very objects from which these\ncopies are made _do_ satisfy us. How and why is this? A question more\neasily put than answered. We may suggest, however, what appears to us a\nclew, that in abler hands may possibly lead to its solution; namely, the\nfact, that, among the innumerable emotions of a pleasurable kind derived\nfrom the actual, there is not one, perhaps, which is strictly confined to\nthe objects before us, and which we do not, either directly or indirectly,\nrefer to something beyond and not present. Now have we at all times a\ndistinct consciousness of the things referred to? Are they not rather more\noften vague, and only indicated in some _undefined_ feeling? Nay, is its\nsource more intelligible where the feeling is more definite, when taking\nthe form of a sense of harmony, as from something that diffuses, yet\ndeepens, unbroken in its progress through endless variations, the melody\nas it were of the pleasurable object? Who has never felt, under certain\ncircumstances, an expansion of the heart, an elevation of mind, nay, a\nstriving of the whole being to pass its limited bounds, for which he could\nfind no adequate solution in the objects around him,--the apparent cause?\nOr who can account for every mood that thralls him,--at times like one\nentranced in a dream by airs from Paradise,--at other times steeped in\ndarkness, when the spirit of discord seems to marshal his every thought,\none against another?\n\nWhether it be that the Living Principle, which permeates all things\nthroughout the physical world, cannot be touched in a single point\nwithout conducting to its centre, its source, and confluence, thus\ngiving by a part, though obscurely and indefinitely, a sense of the\nwhole,--we know not. But this we may venture to assert, and on no\nimprobable ground,--that a ray of light is not more continuously\nlinked in its luminous particles than our moral being with the\nwhole moral universe. If this be so, may it not give us, in a faint\nshadowing at least, some intimation of the many real, though unknown\nrelations, which everywhere surround and bear upon us? In the deeper\nemotions, we have, sometimes, what seems to us a fearful proof of it.\nBut let us look at it negatively; and suppose a case where this chain\nis broken,--of a human being who is thus cut off from all possible\nsympathies, and shut up, as it were, in the hopeless solitude of\nhis own mind. What is this horrible avulsion, this impenetrable\nself-imprisonment, but the appalling state of _despair?_ And what\nif we should see it realized in some forsaken outcast, and hear his\nforlorn cry, \"Alone! alone!\" while to his living spirit that single\nword is all that is left him to fill the blank of space? In such a\nstate, the very proudest autocrat would yearn for the sympathy of the\nveriest wretch.\n\nIt would seem, then, since this living cement which is diffused\nthrough nature, binding all things in one, so that no part can be\ncontemplated that does not, of necessity, even though unconsciously to\nus, act on the mind with reference to the whole,--since this, as we\nfind, cannot be transferred to any copy of the actual, it must needs\nfollow, if we would imitate Nature in its true effects, that recourse\nmust be had to another, though similar principle, which shall so\npervade our production as to satisfy the mind with an efficient\nequivalent. Now, in order to this there are two conditions required:\nfirst, the personal modification, (already discussed) of every\nseparate part,--which may be considered as its proper life; and,\nsecondly, the uniting of the parts by such an interdependence that\nthey shall appear to us as essential, one to another, and all to each.\nWhen this is done, the result is a whole. But how do we obtain\nthis mutual dependence? We refer the questioner to the law of\nHarmony,--that mysterious power, which is only apprehended by its\nimperative effect.\n\nBut, be the above as it may, we know it to be a fact, that, whilst\nnothing in Nature ever affects us as fragmentary, no unmodified copy\nof her by man is ever felt by us as otherwise.\n\nWe have thus--and, we trust, on no fanciful ground--endeavoured to\nestablish the real and distinctive character of Art. And, if our\nargument be admitted, it will be found to have brought us to the\nfollowing conclusions:--first, that the true ground of all originality\nlies in the _individualizing law_, that is, in that modifying\npower, which causes the difference between man and man as to their\nmental impressions; secondly, that only in a _true_ reproduction\nconsists its evidence; thirdly, that in the involuntary response from\nother minds lies the truth of the evidence; fourthly, that in order\nto this response there must therefore exist some universal kindred\nprinciple, which is essential to the human mind, though widely\ndifferenced in the degree of its activity in different individuals;\nand finally, that this principle, which we have here denominated\nHuman or Poetic Truth, being independent both of the will and of the\nreflective faculties, is in its nature _imperative_, to affirm\nor deny, in relation to every production pretending to Art, from the\nsimple imitation of the actual to the probable, and from the probable\nto the possible;--in one word, that the several characteristics,\nOriginality, Poetic Truth, Invention, each imply a something not\ninherent in the objects imitated, but which must emanate alone from\nthe mind of the Artist.\n\nAnd here it may be well to notice an apparent objection, that will\nprobably occur to many, especially among painters. How, then, they may\nask, if the principle in question be universal and imperative, do we\naccount for the mistakes which even great Artists have sometimes made\nas to the realizing of their conceptions? We hope to show, that, so\nfar from opposing, the very fact on which the objection is grounded\nwill be found, on the contrary, to confirm our doctrine. Were such\nmistakes uniformly permanent, they might, perhaps, have a rational\nweight; but that this is not the case is clearly evident from the\nadditional fact of the change in the Artist's judgment, which almost\ninvariably follows any considerable interval of time. Nay, should\na case occur where a similar mistake is never rectified,--which is\nhardly probable,--we might well consider it as one of those exceptions\nthat prove the rule,--of which we have abundant examples in other\nrelations, where a true principle is so feebly developed as to be\nvirtually excluded from the sphere of consciousness, or, at least,\nwhere its imperfect activity is for all practical purposes a mere\nnullity. But, without supposing any mental weakness, the case may\nbe resolved by the no less formidable obstacle of a too inveterate\nmemory: and there have been such,--where a thought or an image once\nimpressed is never erased. In Art it is certainly an advantage to be\nable sometimes to forget. Nor is this a new notion; for Horace, it\nseems, must have had the same, or he would hardly have recommended so\nlong a time as nine years for the revision of a poem. That Titian\nalso was not unaware of the advantage of forgetting is recorded by\nBoschini, who relates, that, during the progress of a work, he was\nin the habit of occasionally turning it to the wall, until it had\nsomewhat faded from his memory, so that, on resuming his labor, he\nmight see with fresh eyes; when (to use his expression) he would\ncriticize the picture with as much severity as his worst enemy. If,\ninstead of the picture on the canvas, Boschini had referred to that in\nhis mind, as what Titian sought to forget, he would have been, as\nwe think, more correct. This practice is not uncommon with Artists,\nthough few, perhaps, are aware of its real object.\n\nIt has doubtless the appearance of a singular anomaly in the judgment,\nthat it should not always be as correct in relation to our own works\nas to those of another. Yet nothing is more common than perfect truth\nin the one case, and complete delusion in the other. Our surprise,\nhowever, would be sensibly diminished, if we considered that the\nreasoning or reflective faculties have nothing to do with either case.\nIt is the Principle of which we have been speaking, the life, or truth\nwithin, answering to the life, or rather its sign, before us, that\nhere sits in judgment. Still the question remains unanswered; and\nagain we are asked, Why is it that our own works do not always respond\nwith equal veracity? Simply because we do not always _see_\nthem,--that is, as they are,--but, looking as it were _through\nthem_, see only their originals in the mind; the mind here acting,\ninstead of being acted upon. And thus it is, that an Artist may\nsuppose his conception realized, while that which gave life to it in\nhis mind is outwardly wanting. But let time erase, as we know it often\ndoes, the mental image, and its embodied representative will then\nappear to its author as it is,--true or false. There is one case,\nhowever, where the effect cannot deceive; namely, where it comes upon\nus as from a foreign source; where our own seems no longer ours. This,\nindeed, is rare; and powerful must be the pictured Truth, that, as\nsoon as embodied, shall thus displace its own original.\n\nNor does it in any wise affect the essential nature of the Principle\nin question, or that of the other Characteristics, that the effect\nwhich follows is not always of a pleasurable kind; it may even be\ndisagreeable. What we contend for is simply its _reality_; the\ncharacter of the perception, like that of every other truth, depending\non the individual character of the percipient. The common truth of\nexistence in a living person, for instance, may be to us either a\nmatter of interest or indifference, nay, even of disgust. So also may\nit be with what is true in Art. Temperament, ignorance, cultivation,\nvulgarity, and refinement have all, in a greater or less degree, an\ninfluence in our impressions; so that any reality may be to us either\nan offence or a pleasure, yet still a reality. In Art, as in Nature,\nthe True is imperative, and must be _felt_, even where a timid, a\nproud, or a selfish motive refuses to acknowledge it.\n\nThese last remarks very naturally lead us to another subject, and one\nof no minor importance; we mean, the education of an Artist; on this,\nhowever, we shall at present add but a few words. We use the word\n_education_ in its widest sense, as involving not only the growth\nand expansion of the intellect, but a corresponding developement of\nthe moral being; for the wisdom of the intellect is of little worth,\nif it be not in harmony with the higher spiritual truth. Nor will a\nmoderate, incidental cultivation suffice to him who would become a\ngreat Artist. He must sound no less than the full depths of his being\nere he is fitted for his calling; a calling in its very condition\nlofty, demanding an agent by whom, from the actual, living world, is\nto be wrought an imagined consistent world of Art,--not fantastic,\nor objectless, but having a purpose, and that purpose, in all its\nfigments, a distinct relation to man's nature, and all that pertains\nto it, from the humblest emotion to the highest aspiration; the circle\nthat bounds it being that only which bounds his spirit,--even the\nconfines of that higher world, where ideal glimpses of angelic forms\nare sometimes permitted to his sublimated vision. Art may, in truth,\nbe called the _human world_; for it is so far the work of man,\nthat his beneficent Creator has especially endowed him with the powers\nto construct it; and, if so, surely not for his mere amusement, but\nas a part (small though it be) of that mighty plan which the Infinite\nWisdom has ordained for the evolution of the human spirit; whereby is\nintended, not alone the enlargement of his sphere of pleasure, but of\nhis higher capacities of adoration;--as if, in the gift, he had said\nunto man, Thou shalt know me by the powers I have given thee. The\ncalling of an Artist, then, is one of no common responsibility; and it\nwell becomes him to consider at the threshold, whether he shall assume\nit for high and noble purposes, or for the low and licentious.\n\n\n\n\nForm.\n\n\n\nThe subject proposed for the following discourse is the Human Form; a\nsubject, perhaps, of all others connected with Art, the most obscured\nby vague theories. It is one, at least, of such acknowledged\ndifficulty as to constrain the writer to confess, that he enters\nupon it with more distrust than hope of success. Should he succeed,\nhowever, in disencumbering this perplexed theme of some of its useless\ndogmas, it will be quite as much as he has allowed himself to expect.\n\nThe object, therefore, of the present attempt will be to show, first,\nthat the notion of one or more standard Forms, which shall in all\ncases serve as exemplars, is essentially false, and of impracticable\napplication for any true purpose of Art; secondly, that the only\napproach to Science, which the subject admits, is in a few general\nrules relating to Stature, and these, too, serving rather as\nconvenient _expedients_ than exact guides, inasmuch as, in most\ncases, they allow of indefinite variations; and, thirdly, that\nthe only efficient Rule must be found in the Artist's mind,--in\nthose intuitive Powers, which are above, and beyond, both the senses\nand the understanding; which, nevertheless, are so far from precluding\nknowledge, as, on the contrary, to require, as their effective\ncondition, the widest intimacy with the things external,--without\nwhich their very existence must remain unknown to the Artist himself.\n\nSupposing, then, certain standard Forms to have been admitted, it may\nnot be amiss to take a brief view of the nature of the Being to whom\nthey are intended to be applied; and to consider them more especially\nas auxiliaries to the Artist.\n\nIn the first place, we observe, that the purpose of Art is not to\nrepresent any given number of men, but the Human Race; and so that the\nrepresentation shall affect us, not indeed as living to the senses,\nbut as true to the mind. In order to this, there must be _all_ in\nthe imitation (though it be but hinted) which the mind will recognize\nas true to the human being: hence the first business of the Artist is\nto become acquainted with his subject in all its properties. He then\nnaturally inquires, what is its general characteristic; and his own\nconsciousness informs him, that, besides an animal nature, there is\nalso a moral intelligence, and that they together form the man. This\nimportant truism (we say important, for it seems to have been\nnot seldom overlooked) makes the foundation of all his future\nobservations; nor can he advance a step without continual reference\nto this double nature. We find him accordingly in the daily habit of\nmentally distinguishing this person from that, as a moral being, and\nof assigning to each a separate character; and this not voluntarily,\nbut simply because he cannot avoid it. Yet, by what does he presume\nto judge of strangers? He will probably answer, By their general\nexterior. And what is the inference? There can be but one; namely,\nthat there must be--at least to him--some efficient correspondence\nbetween the physical and the moral. This is so plain, that the wonder\nis, how it ever came to be doubted. Nor is it directly denied, except\nby those who from habitual disgust reject the guesswork of the various\npretenders to scientific systems; yet even these, no less than others,\ndo practically admit it in their common intercourse with the world.\nAnd it cannot be otherwise; for what the Creator has joined must have\nsome affinity, although the palpable signs may elude our cognizance.\nAnd that they do elude it, except perhaps in a very slight degree,\nis actually the case, as is well proved by the signal failure of all\nattempts to reduce them to a science; for neither diagram nor axiom\nhas ever yet corrected an instinctive impression. But man does not\nlive by science; he feels, acts, and judges right in a thousand things\nwithout the consciousness of any rule by which he so feels, acts, or\njudges. And, happily for him, he has a surer guide than human science\nin that unknown Power within him,--without which he had been without\nknowledge. But of this we shall have occasion to speak again in\nanother part of our discourse.\n\nThough the medium through which the soul acts be, as we have said, elusive\nto the senses,--in so far as to be irreducible to any distinct form,--it\nis not therefore the less real, as every one may verify by his own\nexperience; and, though seemingly invisible, it must nevertheless,\nconstituted as we are, act through the physical, and a physical medium\nexpressly constructed for its peculiar action; nay, it does this\ncontinually, without our confounding for a moment the soul with its\ninstrument. Who can look into the human eye, and doubt of an influence not\nof the body? The form and color leave but a momentary impression, or, if\nwe remember them, it is only as we remember the glass through which we\nhave read the dark problems of the sky. But in this mysterious organ we\nsee not even the signs of its mystery. We see, in truth, nothing; for what\nis there has neither form, nor symbol, nor any thing reducible to a\nsensuous distinctness; and yet who can look into it, and not be conscious\nof a real though invisible presence? In the eye of a brute, we see only a\npart of the animal; it gives us little beyond the palpable outward; at\nmost, it is but the focal point of its fierce, or gentle, affectionate, or\ntimorous character,--the character of the species, But in man, neither\ngentleness nor fierceness can be more than as relative conditions,--the\noutward moods of his unseen spirit; while the spirit itself, that daily\nand hourly sends forth its good and evil, to take shape from the body,\nstill sits in darkness. Yet have we that which can surely reach it; even\nour own spirit. By this it is that we can enter into another's soul, sound\nits very depths, and bring up his dark thoughts, nay, place them before\nhim till he starts at himself; and more,--it is by this we _know_ that\neven the tangible, audible, visible world is not more real than a\nspiritual intercourse. And yet without the physical organ who can hold it?\nWe can never indeed understand, but we may not doubt, that which has its\npower of proof in a single act of consciousness. Nay, we may add that we\ncannot even conceive of a soul without a correlative form,--though it be\nin the abstract; and _vice vers\u00e2_.\n\nFor, among the many impossibilities, it is not the least to look upon\na living human form as a thing; in its pictured copies, as already\nshown in a former discourse, it may be a thing, and a beautiful thing;\nbut the moment we conceive of it as living, if it show not a soul, we\ngive it one by a moral necessity; and according to the outward will be\nthe spirit with which we endow it. No poetic being, supposed of our\nspecies, ever lived to the imagination without some indication of the\nmoral; it is the breath of its life: and this is also true in the\nconverse; if there be but a hint of it, it will instantly clothe\nitself in a human shape; for the mind cannot separate them. In the\nwhole range of the poetic creations of the great master of truth,--we\nneed hardly say Shakspeare,--not an instance can be found where this\ncondition of life is ever wanting; his men and women all have souls.\nSo, too, when he peoples the air, though he describe no form, he never\nleaves these creatures of the brain without a shape, for he will\nsometimes, by a single touch of the moral, enable us to supply one.\nOf this we have a striking instance in one of his most unsubstantial\ncreations, the \"delicate Ariel.\" Not an allusion to its shape or\nfigure is made throughout the play; yet we assign it a form on its\nvery first entrance, as soon as Prospero speaks of its refusing to\ncomply with the\" abhorred commands\" of the witch, Sycorax. And again,\nin the fifth act, when Ariel, after recounting the sufferings of the\nwretched usurper and his followers, gently adds,--\n\n          \"Your charm so strongly works them,\n  That, if you now beheld them, your affections\n  Would become tender.\"\n\nOn which Prospero remarks,--\n\n  \"Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling\n  Of their afflictions?\"\n\nNow, whether Shakspeare intended it or not, it is not possible after\nthis for the reader to think of Ariel but in a human form; for slight\nas these hints are, if they do not indicate the moral affections, they\nat least imply something akin to them, which in a manner compels us to\ninvest the gentle Spirit with a general likeness to our own physical\nexterior, though, perhaps, as indistinct as the emotion that called\nfor it.\n\nWe have thus considered the human being in his complex condition, of\nbody and spirit, or physical and moral; showing the impossibility of\neven thinking of him in the one, to the exclusion of the other. We\nmay, indeed, successively think first of the form, and then of\nthe moral character, as we may think of any one part of either\nanalytically; but we cannot think of the _human being_ except\nas a _whole_. It follows, therefore, as a consequence, that no\nimitation of man can be true which is not addressed to us in this\ndouble condition. And here it may be observed, that in Art there is\nthis additional requirement, that there be no discrepancy between the\nform and the character intended,--or rather, that the form _must_\nexpress the character, or it expresses nothing: a necessity which is\nfar from being general in actual nature. But of this hereafter.\n\nLet us now endeavour to form some general notion of Man in his various\naspects, as presented by the myriads which people the earth. But whose\nimagination is equal to the task,--to the setting in array before it\nthe countless multitudes, each individual in his proper form, his\nproper character? Were this possible, we should stand amazed at the\ninterminable differences, the hideous variety; and that, too, no less\nin the moral, than in the physical; nay, so opposite and appalling in\nthe former as hardly to be figured by a chain of animals, taking for\nthe extremes the fierce and filthy hyena and the inoffensive lamb.\nThis is man in the concrete,--to which, according to some, is to be\napplied the _abstract Ideal!_\n\nNow let us attempt to conceive of a being that shall represent all the\ndiversities of mind, affections, and dispositions, that fleck this\nheterogeneous mass of humanity, and then to conceive of a Form that\nshall be in such perfect affinity with it as to indicate them all. The\nbare statement of the proposition shows its absurdity. Yet this must\nbe the office of a Standard Form; and this it must do, or it will be\na falsehood. Nor should we find it easier with any given number, with\ntwenty, fifty, nay, an hundred (so called) generic forms. We do not\nhesitate to affirm, that, were it possible, it would be quite as easy\nwith one as with a thousand.\n\nBut to this it may be replied, that the Standard Form was never\nintended to represent the vicious or degraded, but man in his most\nperfect developement of mind, affections, and body. This is certainly\nnarrowing its office, and, unfortunately, to the representing of but\n_one_ man; consequently, of no possible use beyond to the Painter\nor Sculptor of Humanity, since every repetition of this perfect form\nwould be as the reflection of one multiplied by mirrors. But such\nrepetitions, it may be further answered, were never contemplated, that\nForm being given only as an exemplar of the highest, to serve as a\nguide in our approach to excellence; as we could not else know to a\ncertainty to what degree of elevation our conceptions might rise.\nStill, in that case its use would be limited to a single object, that\nis, to itself, its own perfectness; it would not aid the Artist in the\nintermediate ascent to it,--unless it contained within itself all the\ngradations of human character; which no one will pretend.\n\nBut let us see how far it is possible to _realize_ the Idea of a\n_perfect_ Human Form.\n\nWe have already seen that the mere physical structure is not man, but\nonly a part; the Idea of man including also an internal moral being.\nThe external, then, in an _actually disjoined_ state, cannot,\nstrictly speaking, be the human form, but only a diagram of it. It is,\nin fact, but a partial condition, becoming human only when united with\nthe internal moral; which, in proof of the union, it must of necessity\nindicate. If we would have a true Idea of it, therefore, it must be as\na whole; consequently, the perfect physical exterior must have, as an\nessential part, the perfect moral. Now come two important questions.\nFirst, In what consists Moral Perfection? We use the word _moral_\nhere (from a want in our language) in its most comprehensive sense,\nas including the spiritual and the intellectual. With respect to that\npart of our moral being which pertains to the affections, in all their\nhigh relations to God and man, we have, it is true, a sure and holy\nguide. In a Christian land, the humblest individual may answer as\nreadily as the most profound scholar, and express its perfection in\nthe single word, Holiness. But what will be the reply in regard to the\nIntellect? For what is a perfect Intellect? Is it the Dialectic, the\nSpeculative, or the Imaginative? Or, rather, would it not include them\nall?\n\nWe proceed next to the Physical. What, then, constitutes its\nPerfection? Here, it might seem, there can be no difficulty, and the\nreply will probably be in naming all the excellent qualities in our\nanimal nature, such as strength, agility, fleetness, with every other\nthat can be thought of. The bare enumeration of these few qualities\nmay serve to show the nature of the task; yet a physically perfect\nform requires them all; none must be omitted; it would else be\nimperfect; nay, they must not only be there, but all be developed in\ntheir highest degrees. We might here exclaim with Hamlet, though in a\nvery different sense,\n\n  \"A combination and a form indeed!\"\n\nAnd yet there is no other way to express physical perfection. But\ncan it be so expressed? The reader must reply for himself. We will,\nhowever, suppose it possible; still the task is incomplete without the\nadjustment of these to the perfect Moral, in the highest known degrees\nof its several elements. To those who can imagine _such_ a form\nas shall be the sure exponent of _such_ a moral being,--and such\nit must be, or it will be nothing,--we leave the task of constructing\nthis universal exemplar for multitudinous man. We may add, however,\none remark; that, supposing it possible thus to concentrate, and\nwith equal prominence, all the qualities of the species into one\nindividual, it can only be done by supplanting Providence, in other\nwords, by virtually overruling the great principle of subordination\nso visibly impressed on all created life. For although, as we have\nelswhere observed, there can be no sound mind (and the like may be\naffirmed of the whole man), which is deficient in any one essential,\nit does not therefore follow, that each of these essentials may not be\nalmost indefinitely differenced in the degrees of their developement\nwithout impairing the human integrity. And such is the fact in actual\nnature; nor does this in any wise affect the individual unity,--as\nwill be noticed hereafter.\n\nWe will now briefly examine the pretensions of what are called the\nGeneric Forms. And here we are met by another important characteristic\nof the human being, namely, his essential individuality.\n\nIt is true that the human family, so called, is divided into many\ndistinct races, having each its peculiar conformation, color, and so\nforth, which together constitute essential differences; but it is\nto be remembered that these essentials are all physical; and _so\nfar_ they are properly generic, as implying a difference in kind.\nBut, though a striking difference is also observable in their moral\nbeing, it is by no means of the same nature with that which marks\ntheir physical condition, the difference in the moral being only of\ndegree; for, however fierce, brutal, stupid, or cunning, or gentle,\ngenerous, or heroic, the same characteristics may each be paralleled\namong ourselves; nay, we could hardly name a vice, a passion, or\na virtue, in Asia, Africa, or America, that has not its echo in\ncivilized Europe. And what is the inference? That climate and\ncircumstance, if such are the causes of the physical variety, have no\ncontrolling power, except in degree, over the Moral. Does not this\nundeniable fact, then, bring us to the fair conclusion, that the moral\nbeing has no genera? To affirm otherwise would be virtually to\ndeny its responsible condition; since the law of its genus must be\nparamount to all other laws,--to education, government, religion. Nor\ncan the result be evaded, except by the absurd supposition of generic\nresponsibilities! To us, therefore, it seems conclusive that a moral\nbeing, as a free agent, cannot be subject to a generic law; nor\ncould he now be--what every man feels himself to be, in spite of\nhis theory--the fearful architect of his own destiny. In one sense,\nindeed, we may admit a human genus,--such as every man must be in his\nindividual entireness.\n\nMan has been called a microcosm, or little world. And such, however\nmean and contemptible to others, is man to himself; nay, such he must\never be, whether he wills it or not. He may hate, he may despise, yet\nhe cannot but cling to that without which he is not; he is the centre\nand the circle, be it of pleasure or of pain; nor can he be other.\nTouch him with misery, and he becomes paramount to the whole\nworld,--to a thousand worlds; for the beauty and the glory of the\nuniverse are as nothing to him who is all darkness. Then it is that he\nwill _feel_, should he have before doubted, that he is not a mere\npart, a fraction, of his kind, but indeed a world; and though little\nin one sense, yet a world of awful magnitude in its capacity of\nsuffering. In one word, Man is a whole, _an Individual_.\n\nIf the preceding argument be admitted, it will be found to have\nrelieved the student of two delusive dogmas,--and the more delusive,\nas carrying with them a plausible show of science.\n\nAs to the flowery declamations about Beauty, they would not here be\nnoticed, were they not occasionally met with in works of high merit,\nand not unfrequently mixed up with philosophic truth. If they have\nany definite meaning, it amounts to this,--that the Beautiful is the\nsummit of every possible excellence! The extravagance, not to say\nabsurdity, of such a proposition, confounding, as it does, all\nreceived distinctions, both in the moral and the natural world, needs\nno comment. It is hardly to be believed, however, that the writers in\nquestion could have deliberately intended this. It is more probable,\nthat, in so expressing themselves, they were only giving vent to an\nenthusiastic feeling, which we all know is generally most vague when\nassociated with admiration; it is not therefore strange that the\nardent expression of it should partake of its vagueness. Among the\nfew critical works of authority in which the word is so used, we may\nmention the (in many respects admirable) Discourses of Sir Joshua\nReynolds, where we find the following sentence:--\"The _beauty_ of\nthe Hercules is one, of the Gladiator another, of the Apollo another;\nwhich, of course, would present three different Ideas of Beauty.\" If\nthis had been said of various animals, differing in _kind_, the\nterm so applied might, perhaps, have been appropriate. But the same\nterm is here applied to objects of the same kind, differing not\nessentially even in age; we say _age_, inasmuch as in the three\ngreat divisions, or periods, of human life, namely, childhood,\nyouth, and maturity, the characteristic conditions of each are so\n_essentially_ distinct, as virtually to separate them into\npositive kinds.\n\nBut it is no less idle than invidious to employ our time in\noverturning the errors of others; if we establish Truth, they will\nfall of themselves. There cannot be two right sides to any question;\nand, if we are right, what is opposed to us must of necessity he\nwrong. Whether we are so or not must be determined by those who admit\nor reject what has already been advanced on the subject of Beauty, in\nthe first Discourse. It will be remembered, that, in the course of our\nargument there, we were brought to the conclusion, that Beauty was\nthe Idea of a certain physical _condition_, both general and\nultimate; general, as presiding over objects of many kinds, and\nultimate, as being the _perfection_ of that peculiar condition in\neach, and therefore not applicable to, or representing, its degrees\nin any; which, as approximations only to the one supreme Idea, should\ntruly be distinguished by other terms. Accordingly, we cannot,\nstrictly speaking, say of two persons of the same age and sex,\ndiffering from each other, that they are equally beautiful. We hear\nthis, indeed, almost daily; it is nevertheless not the true expression\nof the actual impression made on the speaker, though he may not take\nthe trouble to examine and compare them. But let him do so, and we\ndoubt not that he would find the one to rise (in however slight a\ndegree) above the other; and, if he did not assign a different term\nto the lower, it would be only because he was not in the habit of\nmarking, or did not think it worth his while to note, such nice\ndistinctions.\n\nIf there is a _first_ and a _last_ to any thing, the\nintermediates can be neither one nor the other; and, if we so name\nthem, we speak falsely. It is no less so with Beauty, which, being at\nthe head, or first in a series, admits no transference of its title.\nWe mean, if speaking strictly; which, however, we freely acknowledge,\nno one can; but that is owing to the insufficiency of language, which\nin no dialect could supply a hundredth part of the terms needed to\nmark every minute shade of difference. Perhaps no subject requiring a\nwider nomenclature has one so contracted; and the consequence is,\nthat no subject is more obscured by vague expressions. But it is the\nbusiness of the Artist, if he cannot form to himself the corresponding\nterms, to be prepared at least to perceive and to note these various\nshades. We do not say, that an actual acquaintance with all the nice\ndistinctions is an essential requisite, but only that it will not be\naltogether useless to be aware of their existence; at any rate, it\nmay serve to shield him from the annoyance of false criticism, when\ncensured for wanting beauty where its presence would have been an\nimpertinence.\n\nBefore we quit the subject, it may not be amiss to observe, that, in\nthe preceding remarks, our object has been not so much to insist on\ncorrect speaking as correct thinking. The poverty of language,\nas already admitted, has made the former impossible; but, though\nconstrained in this, as in many other cases where a subordinate is put\nfor its principal, to apply the term Beautiful to its various degrees,\nyet a right apprehension of what Beauty _is_ may certainly\nprevent its misapplication as to other objects having no relation to\nit. Nor is this a small matter where the avoiding of confusion is an\nobject desirable; and there is clearly some difference between an\napproach to precision and utter vagueness.\n\nWe have now to consider how far the Correspondence between the\noutward form and the inward being, which is assumed by the Artist, is\nsupported by fact.\n\nIn a fair statement, then, of facts, it cannot be denied that with\nthe mass of men the outward intimation of character is certainly very\nfaint, with many obscure, and with some ambiguous, while with others\nit has often seemed to express the very reverse of the truth. Perhaps\na stronger instance of the latter could hardly occur than that cited\nin a former discourse in illustration of the physical relation of\nBeauty; where it was shown that the first and natural impression from\na beautiful form was not only displaced, but completely reversed, by\nthe revolting discovery of a moral discrepancy. But while we admit, on\nthe threshold, that the Correspondence in question cannot be sustained\nas universally obvious, it is, nevertheless, not apprehended that this\nadmission can affect our argument, which, though in part grounded\non special cases of actual coincidence, is yet supported by other\nevidences, which lead us to regard all such discrepancies rather as\nexceptions, and as so many deviations from the original law of our\nnature, nay, which lead us also rationally to infer at least a future,\npotential correspondence in every individual. To the past, indeed, we\ncannot appeal; neither can the past be cited against us, since little\nis known of the early history of our race but a chronicle of their\nactions; of their outward appearance scarcely any thing, certainly not\nenough to warrant a decision one way or the other. Should we assume,\nthen, the Correspondence as a primeval law, who shall gainsay it? It\nis not, however, so asserted. We may nevertheless hold it as a matter\nof _faith_; and simply as such it is here submitted. But faith of\nany kind must have some ground to rest on, either real or supposed,\neither that of authority or of inference. Our ground of faith, then,\nin the present instance, is in the universal desire amongst men to\n_realize_ the Correspondence. Nothing is more common than,\non hearing or reading of any remarkable character, to find this\ninstinctive craving, if we may so term it, instantly awakened, and\nactively employed in picturing to the imagination some corresponding\nform; nor is any disappointment more general, than that which follows\nthe detection of a discrepancy on actual acquaintance. Indeed, we can\nhardly deem it rash, should we rest the validity of this universal\ndesire on the common experience of any individual, taken at\nrandom,--provided only that he has a particle of imagination. Nor\nis its action dependent on our caprice or will. Ask any person of\nordinary cultivation, not to say refinement, how it is with him,\nwhen, his imagination has not been forestalled by some definite fact;\nwhether he has never found himself _involuntarily_ associating\nthe good with the beautiful, the energetic with the strong, the\ndignified with the ample, or the majestic with the lofty; the refined\nwith the delicate, the modest with the comely; the base with the\nugly, the brutal with the misshapen, the fierce with the coarse and\nmuscular, and so on; there being scarcely a shade of character to\nwhich the imagination does not affix some corresponding form.\n\nIn a still more striking form may we find the evidence of the law\nsupposed, if we turn to the young, and especially to those of a poetic\ntemperament,--to the sanguine, the open, and confiding, the creatures\nof impulse, who reason best when trusting only to the spontaneous\nsuggestions of feeling. What is more common than implicit faith in\ntheir youthful day-dreams,--a faith that lives, though dream after\ndream vanish into common air when the sorcerer Fact touches their\neyes? And whence this pertinacious faith that _will_ not die, but\nfrom a spring of life, that neither custom nor the dry understanding\ncan destroy? Look at the same Youth at a more advanced age, when the\nrefining intellect has mixed with his affections, adding thought and\nsentiment to every thing attractive, converting all things fair to\nthings also of good report. Let us turn, at the same time, to one\nstill more advanced,--even so far as to have entered into the\nconventional valley of dry bones,--one whom the world is preparing,\nby its daily practical lessons, to enlighten with unbelief. If we see\nthem together, perhaps we shall hear the senior scoff at his younger\ncompanion as a poetic dreamer, as a hunter after phantoms that never\nwere, nor could be, in nature: then may follow a homily on the virtues\nof experience, as the only security against disappointment. But there\nare some hearts that never suffer the mind to grow old. And such we\nmay suppose that of the dreamer. If he is one, too, who is accustomed\nto look into himself,--not as a reasoner,--but with an abiding faith\nin his nature,--we shall, perhaps, hear him reply,--Experience, it is\ntrue, has often brought me disappointment; yet I cannot distrust those\ndreams, as you call them, bitterly as I have felt their passing off;\nfor I feel the truth of the source whence they come. They could not\nhave been so responded to by my living nature, were they but phantoms;\nthey could not have taken such forms of truth, but from a possible\nground.\n\nBy the word _poetic_ here, we do not mean the visionary or\nfanciful,--for there may be much fancy where there is no poetic\nfeeling,--but that sensibility to _harmony_ which marks the\ntemperament of the Artist, and which is often most active in his\nearlier years. And we refer to such natures, not only as being more\npeculiarly alive to all existing affinities, but as never satisfied\nwith those merely which fall within their experience; ever striving,\non the contrary, as if impelled by instinct, to supply the deficiency\nwherever it is felt. From such minds proceed what are called romantic\nimaginings, but what we would call--without intending a paradox--the\nromance of Truth. For it is impossible that the mind should ever have\nthis perpetual craving for the False.\n\nBut the desire in question is not confined to any particular age or\ntemperament, though it is, doubtless, more ardent in some than in\nothers. Perhaps it is only denied to the habitually vicious. For who,\nnot hardened by vice, has ever looked upon a sleeping child in its\nfirst bloom of beauty, and seen its pure, fresh hues, its ever\nvarying, yet according lines, moulding and suffusing, in their playful\nharmony, its delicate features,--who, not callous, has ever looked\nupon this exquisite creature, (so like what a poet might fancy of\nvisible music, or embodied odors,) and has not felt himself carried,\nas it were, out of this present world, in quest of its moral\ncounterpart? It seems to us perfect; we desire no change,--not a line\nor a hue but as it is; and yet we have a paradoxical feeling of a\nwant,--for it is all _physical_; and we supply that want by\nendowing the child with some angelic attribute. Why do we this? To\nmake it a _whole_,--not to the eye, but to the mind.\n\nNor is this general disposition to find a coincidence between a fair\nexterior and moral excellence altogether unsupported by facts of, at\nleast, a partial realization. For, though a perfect correspondence\ncannot be looked for in a state where all else is imperfect, he\nis most unfortunate who has never met with many, and very near,\napproximations to the desired union. But we have a still stronger\nassurance of their predetermined affinity in the peculiar activity of\nthis desire where there is no such approximation. For example, when we\nmeet with an instance of the higher virtues in an unattractive form,\nhow natural the wish that that form were beautiful! So, too, on\nbeholding a beautiful person, how common the wish that the mind\nit clothed were also good! What are these wishes but unconscious\nretrospects to our primitive nature? And why have we them, if they be\nnot the workings of that universal law, which gathers to itself all\nscattered affinities, bodying them forth in the never-ending forms of\nharmony,--in the flower, in the tree, in the bird, and the animal,--if\nthey be not the evidence of its continuous, though fruitless, effort\nto evolve too in _man_ its last consummate work, by the perfect\nconfluence of the body and the spirit? In this universal yearning (for\nit seems to us no less) to connect the physical with its appropriate\nmoral,--to say nothing of the mysterious intuition that points to\nthe appropriate,--is there not something like a clew to what was\noriginally natural? And, again, in the never-ceasing strivings of the\ntwo great elements of our being, each to supply the deficiencies of\nthe other, have we not also an intimation of something that _once\nwas_, that is now lost, and would be recovered? Surely there must\nbe more in this than a mere concernment of Art;--if, indeed, there be\nnot in Art more of the prophetic than we are now aware of. To us\nit seems that this irrepressible desire to find the good in the\nbeautiful, and the beautiful in the good, implies an end, both\nbeyond and above the trifling present; pointing to deep and dark\nquestions,--to no less than where the mysteries which surround us will\nmeet their solution. One great mystery we see in part resolving itself\nhere. We see the deformities of the body sometimes giving place to\nits glorious tenant. Some of us may have witnessed this, and felt\nthe spiritual presence gaining daily upon us, till the outward shape\nseemed lost in its brightness, leaving no trace in the memory.\n\nWhether the position we have endeavoured to establish be disputed or\nnot, the absolute correspondence between the Moral and the Physical\nis, at any rate, the essential ground of the Plastic arts; which could\nnot else exist, since through _Form alone_ they have to convey,\nnot only thought and emotion, but distinct and permanent character.\nFor our own part, we cannot but consider their success in this as\nhaving settled the question.\n\nFrom the view here presented, what is the inference in relation to\nArt? That Man, as a compound being, cannot be represented without an\nindication as well of Mind as of body; that, by a natural law which we\ncannot resist, we do continually require that they be to us as mutual\nexponents, the one of the other; and, finally, that, as a responsible\nbeing, and therefore a free agent, he cannot be truly represented,\neither to the memory or to the imagination, but as an Individual.\n\nIt would seem, also, from the indefinite varieties in men, though\noccasioned only by the mere difference of degrees in their common\nfaculties and powers, that the coincidence of an equal developement of\nall was never intended in nature; but that some one or more of them,\nbecoming dominant, should distinguish the individual. It follows,\ntherefore, if this be the case, that only through the phase of such\npredominance can the human being ever be contemplated. To the Artist,\nthen, it becomes the only safe ground; the starting-point from\nwhence to ascend to a true Ideal,--which is no other than a partial\nindividual truth made whole in the mind: and thus, instead of one\nIdeal, and that baseless, he may have a thousand,--nay, as many as\nthere are marked or apprehensible _individuals_.\n\nBut we must not be understood as confining Art to actual portraits.\nWithin such limits there could not be Art,--certainly not Art in its\nhighest sense; we should have in its place what would be little better\nthan a doubtful empiricism; since the most elevated subject, in the\nablest hands, would depend, of necessity, on the chance success of a\nsearch after models. And, supposing that we bring together only the\nrarest forms, still those forms, simply as circumscribed portraits,\nand therefore insulated parts, would instantly close every avenue\nto the imagination; for such is the law of the imagination, that it\ncannot admit, or, in other words, recognize as a whole, that which\nremains unmodified by some imaginative power, which alone can give\nunity to separate and distinct objects. Yet, as it regards man,\nall true Art does, and must, find its proper object in the\n_Individual_: as without individuality there could not be\ncharacter, nor without character, the human being.\n\nBut here it may be asked, In what manner, if we resort not to actual\nportrait, is the Individual Man to be expressed? We answer, By\ncarrying out the natural individual predominant _fragment_ which\nis visible to us in actual Form, to its full, consistent developement.\nThe Individual is thus idealized, when, in the complete accordance of\nall its parts, it is presented to the mind as a _whole_.\n\nWhen we apply the term _fragment_ to a human being, we do not\nmean in relation to his species, (in regard to which we have already\nshown him to be a distinct whole,) but in relation to the Idea, to\nwhich his predominant characteristic suggests itself but as a\npartial manifestation, and made partial because counteracted by\nsome inadequate exponent, or else modified by other, though minor,\ncharacteristics.\n\nHow this is effected must be left to the Artist himself. It is\nimpossible to prescribe a rule that would be to much purpose for any\none who stands in need of such instruction; if his own mind does not\nsuggest the mode, it would not even be intelligible. Perhaps our\nmeaning, however, may be made more obvious, if we illustrate it by\nexample. We would refer, then, to the restoration of a statue, (a\nthing often done with success,) where, from a single fragment, the\nunknown Form has been completely restored, and so remoulded, that the\nparts added are in perfect unity with the suggestive fragment. Now the\nparts wanting having never been seen, this cannot be called a mere\nact of the memory. Nevertheless, it is not from nothing that man can\nproduce even the _semblance_ of any thing. The materials of the\nArtist are the work of Him who created the Artist himself; but over\nthese, which his senses and mind are given him to observe and collect,\nhe has a _delegated power_, for the purpose of combining and\nmodifying, as unlimited as mysterious. It is by the agency of this\nintuitive and assimilating Power, elsewhere spoken of, that he is able\nto separate the essential from the accidental, to proceed also from a\npart to the whole; thus educing, as it were, an Ideal nature from the\ngerms of the Actual.\n\nNor does the necessity of referring to Nature preclude the\nImaginative, or any other class of Art that rests its truth in the\ndesires of the mind. In an especial manner must the personification\nof Sentiment, of the Abstract, which owe their interest to the common\ndesire of rendering permanent, by embodying, that which has given us\npleasure, take its starting-point from the Actual; from something\nwhich, by universal association or particular expression, shall recall\nthe Sentiment, Thought, or Time, and serve as their exponents; there\nbeing scarcely an object in Nature which the spirit of man has not, as\nit were, impressed with sympathy, and linked with his being. Of this,\nperhaps, we could not have a more striking example than in the Aurora\nof Michael Angelo: which, if not universal, is not so only because\nthe faculty addressed is by no means common. For, as the peculiar\ncharacteristic of the Imaginative is its suggestive power, the effect\nof this figure must of necessity differ in different minds. As in many\nother cases, there must needs be at least some degree of sympathy with\nthe mind that imagined it, in order to any impression; and the degree\nin which that is made will always be in proportion to the congeniality\nbetween the agent and the recipient. Should it appear, then, to any\none as a thing of no meaning, it is not therefore conclusive that the\nArtist has failed. For, if there be but one in a thousand to whose\nmind it recalls the deep stillness of Night, gradually broken by the\nawakening stir of Day, with its myriad forms of life emerging into\nmotion, while their lengthened shadows, undistinguished from their\nobjects, seem to people the earth with gigantic beings; then the dim,\ngray monotony of color transforming them to stone, yet leaving them\nin motion, till the whole scene becomes awful and mysterious as with\nmoving statues;--if there be but one in ten thousand who shall have\nthus imagined, as he stands before this embodied Dawn, then is it, for\nevery purpose of feeling through the excited imagination, as true and\nreal as if instinct with life, and possessing the mind by its living\nwill. Nor is the number so rare of those who have thus felt the\nsuggestive sorcery of this sublime Statue. But the mind so influenced\nmust be one to respond to sublime emotions, since such was the\nemotion which inspired the Artist. If susceptible only to the gay and\nbeautiful, it will not answer. For this is not the Aurora of golden\npurple, of laughing flowers and jewelled dew-drops; but the dark\nEnchantress, enthroned on rocks, or craggy mountains, and whose proper\nempire is the shadowy confines of light and darkness.\n\nHow all this is done, we shall not attempt to explain. Perhaps the\nArtist himself could not answer; as to the _quo modo_ in every\nparticular, we doubt if it were possible to satisfy another. He may\ntell us, indeed, that having imagined certain appearances and effects\npeculiar to the Time, he endeavoured to imbue, as it were, some\n_human form_ with the sentiment they awakened, so that the\nembodied sentiment should associate itself in the spectator's mind\nwith similar images; and further endeavoured, that the _form_\nselected should, by its air, attitude, and gigantic proportions, also\nexcite the ideas of vastness, solemnity, and repose; adding to this\nthat indefinite expression, which, while it is felt to act, still\nleaves no trace of its indistinct action. So far, it is true, he may\nretrace the process; but of the _informing life_ that quickened\nhis fiction, thus presenting the presiding Spirit of that ominous\nTime, he knows nothing but that he felt it, and imparted it to the\ninsensible marble.\n\nAnd now the question will naturally occur, Is all that has been done\nby the learned in Art, to establish certain canons of Proportion,\nutterly useless? By no means. If rightly applied, and properly\nconsidered,--as it seems to us they must have been by the great\nartists of Antiquity,--as _expedient fictions_, they undoubtedly\ndeserve at least a careful examination. And, inasmuch as they are the\nresult of a comparison of the finest actual forms through successive\nages, and as they indicate the general limits which Nature has been\nobserved to assign to her noblest works, they are so far to be valued.\nBut it must not be forgotten, that, while a race, or class, may be\ngenerally marked by a certain average height and breadth, or curve and\nangle, still is every class and race composed of _Individuals_,\nwho must needs, as such, differ from each other; and though the\ndifference be slight, yet is it \"the little more, or the little less,\"\nwhich often separates the great from the mean, the wise from the\nfoolish, in human character;--nay, the widest chasms are sometimes\nmade by a few lines: so that, in every individual case, the limits in\nquestion are rather to be departed from, than strictly adhered to.\n\nThe canon of the Schools is easily mastered by every student who has\nonly memory; yet of the hundreds who apply it, how few do so to any\npurpose! Some ten or twenty, perhaps, call up life from the quarry,\nand flesh and blood from the canvas; the rest conjure in vain with\ntheir canon; they call up nothing but the dead measures. Whence the\ndifference? The answer is obvious,--In the different minds they each\ncarry to their labors.\n\nBut let us trace, with the Artist, the beginning and progress of a\nsuccessful work; a picture, for instance. His method of proceeding may\nenable us to ascertain how far he is assisted by the science, so called,\nof which we are speaking. He adjusts the height and breadth of his figures\naccording to the canon, either by the division of heads or faces, as most\nconvenient. By these means, he gets the general divisions in the easiest\nand most expeditious way. But could he not obtain them without such aid?\nHe would answer, Yes, by the eye alone; but it would be a waste of time\nwere he so to proceed, since he would have to do, and undo, perhaps twenty\ntimes, before he could erect this simple scaffolding; whereas, by applying\nthese rules, whose general truth is already admitted, he accomplishes his\nobject in a few minutes. Here we admit the use of the canon, and admire\nthe facility with which it enables his hand, almost without the aid of a\nthought, thus to lay out his work. But here ends the science; and here\nbegins what may seem to many the work of mutilation: a leg, an arm, a\ntrunk, is increased, or diminished; line after line is erased, or\nretrenched, or extended, again and again, till not a trace remains of the\noriginal draught. If he is asked now by what he is guided in these\ninnumerable changes, he can only answer, By the feeling within me. Nor can\nhe better tell _how_ he knows when he has _hit the mark_. The same feeling\nresponds to its truth; and he repeats his attempts until that is\nsatisfied.\n\nIt would appear, then, that in the Mind alone is to be found the true\nor ultimate Rule,--if, indeed, that can be called a rule which\nchanges its measure with every change of character. It is therefore\nall-important that every aid be sought which may in any way contribute\nto the due developement of the mental powers; and no one will doubt\nthe efficiency here of a good general education. As to the course of\nstudy, that must be left in a great measure to be determined by the\nstudent; it will be best indicated by his own natural wants. We\nmay observe, however, that no species of knowledge can ever be\n_oppressive_ to real genius, whose peculiar privilege is that of\nsubordinating all things to the paramount desire. But it is not likely\nthat a mind so endowed will be long diverted by any studies that do\nnot either strengthen its powers by exercise, or have a direct bearing\non some particular need.\n\nIf the student be a painter, or a sculptor, he will not need to be\ntold that a knowledge of the human being, in all his complicated\nsprings of action, is not more essential to the poet than to him. Nor\nwill a true Artist require to be reminded, that, though _himself_\nmust be his ultimate dictator and judge, the allegiance of the world\nis not to be commanded either by a dreamer or a dogmatist. And\nnothing, perhaps, would be more likely to secure him from either\ncharacter, than the habit of keeping his eyes open,--nay, his very\nheart; nor need he fear to open it to the whole world, since nothing\nnot kindred will enter there to abide; for\n\n  \"Evil into the mind ...\n  May come and go, so unapproved, and leave\n  No spot or blame behind.\"\n\nAnd he may also be sure that a pure heart will shed a refining light\non his intellect, which it may not receive from any other source.\n\nIt cannot be supposed that an Artist, so disciplined, will overlook\nthe works of his predecessors,--especially those exquisite remains of\nAntiquity which time has spared to us. But to his own discretion must\nbe left the separating of the factitious from the true,--a task of\nsome moment; for it cannot be denied that a mere antiquarian respect\nfor whatever is ancient has preserved, with the good, much that is\nworthless. Indeed, it is to little purpose that the finest forms are\nset before us, if we _feel_ not their truth. And here it may be\nwell to remark, that an injudicious _word_ has often given a\nwrong direction to the student, from which he has found it difficult\nto recover when his maturer mind has perceived the error. It is a\ncommon thing to hear such and such statues, or pictures, recommended\nas _models_. If the advice is followed,--as it too often is\n_literally_,--the consequence must be an offensive mannerism;\nfor, if repeating himself makes an artist a mannerist, he is still\nmore likely to become one if he repeat another. There is but one model\nthat will not lead him astray,--which is Nature: we do not mean what\nis merely obvious to the senses, but whatever is so acknowledged by\nthe mind. So far, then, as the ancient statues are found to represent\nher,--and the student's own feeling must be the judge of that,--they\nare undoubtedly both true and important objects of study, as\npresenting not only a wider, but a higher view of Nature, than might\nelse be commanded, were they buried with their authors; since, with\nthe finest forms of the fairest portion of the earth, we have also in\nthem the realized Ideas of some of the greatest minds. In like manner\nmay we extend our sphere of knowledge by the study of all those\nproductions of later ages which have stood this test. There is no\nschool from which something may not be learned. But chiefly to the\nItalian should the student be directed, who would enlarge his views\non the present subject, and especially to the works of Raffaelle and\nMichael Angelo; in whose highest efforts we have, so to speak,\ncertain revelations of Nature which could only have been made by her\nprivileged seers. And we refer to them more particularly, as to the\ntwo great sovereigns of the two distinct empires of Truth,--the\nActual and the Imaginative; in which their claims are acknowledged\nby _that_ within us, of which we know nothing but that it\n_must_ respond to all things true. We refer to them, also, as\nimportant examples in their mode of study; in which it is evident\nthat, whatever the source of instruction, it was never considered as a\nlaw of servitude, but rather as the means of giving visible shape to\ntheir own conceptions.\n\nFrom the celebrated antique fragment, called the Torso, Michael Angelo\nis said to have constructed his forms. If this be true,--and we have\nno reason to doubt it,--it could nevertheless have been to him little\nmore than a hint. But that is enough to a man of genius, who stands\nin need, no less than others, of a point to start from. There was\nsomething in this fragment which he seems to have felt, as if of a\nkindred nature to the unembodied creatures in his own mind; and he\npondered over it until he mastered the spell of its author. He then\nturned to his own, to the germs of life that still awaited birth,\nto knit their joints, to attach the tendons, to mould the\nmuscles,--finally, to sway the limbs by a mighty will. Then emerged\ninto being that gigantic race of the Sistina,--giants in mind no less\nthan in body, that appear to have descended as from another planet.\nHis Prophets and Sibyls seem to carry in their persons the commanding\nevidence of their mission. They neither look nor move like beings to\nbe affected by the ordinary concerns of life; but as if they could\nonly be moved by the vast of human events, the fall of empires, the\nextinction of nations; as if the awful secrets of the future had\noverwhelmed in them all present sympathies. As we have stood before\nthese lofty apparitions of the painter's mind, it has seemed to us\nimpossible that the most vulgar spectator could have remained there\nirreverent.\n\nWith many critics it seems to have been doubted whether much that\nwe now admire in Raffaelle would ever have been but for his great\ncontemporary. Be this as it may, it is a fact of history, that, after\nseeing the works of Michael Angelo, both his form and his style\nassumed a breadth and grandeur which they possessed not before.\nAnd yet these great artists had little, if any thing, in common;\na sufficient proof that an original mind may owe, and even freely\nacknowledge, its impetus to another without any self-sacrifice.\n\nAs Michael Angelo adopted from others only what accorded with his\nown peculiar genius, so did Raffaelle; and, wherever collected, the\nmaterials of both could not but enter their respective minds as their\nnatural aliment.\n\nThe genius of Michael Angelo was essentially _Imaginative_. It\nseems rarely to have been excited by the objects with which we are\ndaily familiar; and when he did treat them, it was rather as things\npast, as they appear to us through the atmosphere of the hallowing\nmemory. We have a striking instance of this in his statue of Lorenzo\nde' Medici; where, retaining of the original only enough to mark the\nindividual, and investing the rest with an air of grandeur that should\naccord with his actions, he has left to his country, not a mere\neffigy of the person, but an embodiment of the mind; a portrait\nfor posterity, in which the unborn might recognize Lorenzo the\nMagnificent.\n\nBut the mind of Raffaelle was an ever-flowing fountain of human\nsympathies; and in all that concerns man, in his vast varieties and\ncomplicated relations, from the highest forms of majesty to the\nhumblest condition of humanity, even to the maimed and misshapen, he\nmay well be called a master. His Apostles, his philosophers, and most\nordinary subordinates, are all to us as living beings; nor do we feel\nany doubt that they all had mothers, and brothers, and kindred. In\nthe assemblage of the Apostles (already referred to) at the Death of\nAnanias, we look upon men whom the effusion of the Spirit has equally\nsublimated above every unholy thought; a common power seems to have\ninvested them all with a preternatural majesty. Yet not an iota of the\n_individual_ is lost in any one; the gentle bearing and amenity\nof John still follow him in his office of almoner; nor in Peter does\nthe deep repose of the erect attitude of the Apostle, as he deals the\ndeath-stroke to the offender by a simple bend of his finger, subdue\nthe energetic, sanguine temperament of the Disciple.\n\nIf any man may be said to have reigned over the hearts of his fellows,\nit was Raffaelle Sanzio. Not that he knew better what was in the\nhearts and minds of men than many others, but that he better\nunderstood their relations to the external. In this the greatest names\nin Art fall before him; in this he has no rival; and, however derived,\nor in whatever degree improved by study, in him it seems to have risen\nto intuition. We know not how he touches and enthralls us; as if he\nhad wrought with the simplicity of Nature, we see no effort; and we\nyield as to a living influence, sure, yet inscrutable.\n\nIt is not to be supposed that these two celebrated Artists were at all\ntimes successful. Like other men, they had their moments of weakness,\nwhen they fell into manner, and gave us diagrams, instead of life.\nPerhaps no one, however, had fewer lapses of this nature than\nRaffaelle; and yet they are to be found in some of his best works. We\nshall notice now only one instance,--the figure of St. Catherine in\nthe admirable picture of the Madonna di Sisto; in which we see an\nevident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of\nbeauty, as laid down by the analyst,--apparently faultless, yet\nwithout a single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to\nour sympathies; and we turn from it coldly, as from the work of an\nartificer, not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense\nlife, that seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of\nthe Virgin and her Child, and from the Angels below: in these we have\nthe evidence of the divine afflatus,--of inspired Art.\n\nIn the works of Michael Angelo it were easy to point out numerous\nexamples of a similar failure, though from a different cause; not from\nmechanically following the Antique, but rather from erecting into\na model the exaggerated _shadow_ of his own practice; from\nrepeating lines and masses that might have impressed us with grandeur\nbut for the utter absence of the informing soul. And that such is the\ncharacter--or rather want of character--of many of the figures in his\nLast Judgment cannot be gainsaid by his warmest admirers,--among whom\nthere is no one more sincere than the present writer. But the failures\nof great men are our most profitable lessons,--provided only, that we\nhave hearts and heads to respond to their success.\n\nIn conclusion. We have now arrived at what appears to us the\nturning-point, that, by a natural reflux, must carry us back to our\noriginal Position; in other words, it seems to us clear, that the\nresult of the argument is that which was anticipated in our main\nProposition; namely, that no given number of Standard Forms can with\ncertainty apply to the Human Being; that all Rules therefore, thence\nderived, can only be considered as _Expedient Fictions_, and\nconsequently subject to be _overruled_ by the Artist,--in whose\nmind alone is the ultimate Rule; and, finally, that without an\nintimate acquaintance with Nature, in all its varieties of the moral,\nintellectual, and physical, the highest powers are wanting in their\nnecessary condition of action, and are therefore incapable of\nsupplying the Rule.\n\n\n\n\nComposition.\n\n\n\nThe term Composition, in its general sense, signifies the union of\nthings that were originally separate: in the art of Painting it\nimplies, in addition to this, such an arrangement and reciprocal\nrelation of these materials, as shall constitute them so many\nessential parts of a whole.\n\nIn a true Composition of Art will be found the following\ncharacteristics:--First, Unity of Purpose, as expressing the general\nsentiment or intention of the Artist. Secondly, Variety of Parts, as\nexpressed in the diversity of shape, quantity, and line. Thirdly,\nContinuity, as expressed by the connection of parts with each other,\nand their relation to the whole. Fourthly, Harmony of Parts.\n\nAs these characteristics, like every thing which the mind can\nrecognize as true, all have their origin in its natural desires, they\nmay also be termed Principles; and as such we shall consider them. In\norder, however, to satisfy ourselves that they are truly such, and not\narbitrary assumptions, or the traditional dogmas of Practice, it may\nbe well to inquire whence is their authority; for, though the ultimate\ncause of pleasure and pain may ever remain to us a mystery, yet it is\nnot so with their intermediate causes, or the steps that lead to them.\n\nWith respect to Unity of Purpose, it is sufficient to observe, that,\nwhere the attention is at the same time claimed by two objects, having\neach a different end, they must of necessity break in upon that free\nstate required of the mind in order to receive a full impression from\neither. It is needless to add, that such conflicting claims cannot,\nunder any circumstances, be rendered agreeable. And yet this most\nobvious requirement of the mind has sometimes been violated by great\nArtists,--though not of authority in this particular, as we shall\nendeavour to show in another place.\n\nWe proceed, meanwhile, to the second principle, namely, Variety; by\nwhich is to be understood _difference_, yet with _relation_\nto a _common end_.\n\nOf a ruling Principle, or Law, we can only get a notion by observing the\neffects of certain things in relation to the mind; the uniformity of\nwhich leads us to infer something which is unchangeable and permanent.\nIt is in this way that, either directly or indirectly, we learn the\nexistence of certain laws that invariably control us. Thus, indirectly,\nfrom our disgust at monotony, we infer the necessity of variety. But\nvariety, when carried to excess, results in weariness. Some limitation,\ntherefore, seems no less needed. It is, however, obvious, that all\nattempts to fix the limit to Variety, that shall apply as a universal\nrule, must be nugatory, inasmuch as the _degree_ must depend on the\n_kind_, and the kind on the subject treated. For instance, if the\nsubject be of a gay and light character, and the emotions intended to be\nexcited of a similar nature, the variety may be carried to a far greater\nextent than in one of a graver character. In the celebrated Marriage at\nCana, by Paul Veronese, we see it carried, perhaps, to its utmost\nlimits; and to such an extent, that an hour's travel will hardly conduct\nus through all its parts; yet we feel no weariness throughout this\njourney, nay, we are quite unconscious of the time it has taken. It is\nno disparagement of this remarkable picture, if we consider the subject,\nnot according to the title it bears, but as what the Artist has actually\nmade it,--that is, as a Venetian entertainment; and also the effect\nintended, which was to delight by the exhibition of a gorgeous\n_pageant_. And in this he has succeeded to a degree unexampled; for\nliterally the eye may be said to _dance_ through the picture, scarcely\nlighting on one part before it is drawn to another, and another, and\nanother, as by a kind of witchery; while the subtile interlocking of\neach successive novelty leaves it no choice, but, seducing it onward,\nstill keeps it in motion, till the giddy sense seems to call on the\nimagination to join in the revel; and every poetic temperament answers\nto the call, bringing visions of its own, that mingle with the painted\ncrowd, exchanging forms, and giving them voice, like the creatures of a\ndream.\n\nTo those who have never seen this picture, our account of its effect\nmay perhaps appear incredible when they are told, that it not only\nhas no story, but not a single expression to which you can attach a\nsentiment. It is nevertheless for this very reason that we here cite\nit, as a triumphant verification of those immutable laws of the mind\nto which the principles of Composition are supposed to appeal; where\nthe simple technic exhibition, or illustration of _Principles_,\nwithout story, or thought, or a single definite expression, has\nstill the power to possess and to fill us with a thousand delightful\nemotions.\n\nAnd here we cannot refrain from a passing remark on certain\ncriticisms, which have obtained, as we think, an undeserved currency.\nTo assert that such a work is solely addressed to the senses (meaning\nthereby that its only end is in mere pleasurable sensation) is to give\nthe lie to our convictions; inasmuch as we find it appealing to one\nof the mightiest ministers of the Imagination,--the great Law of\nHarmony,--which cannot be _touched_ without awakening by its\nvibrations, so to speak, the untold myriads of sleeping forms that lie\nwithin its circle, that start up in tribes, and each in accordance\nwith the congenial instrument that summons them to action. He who\ncan thus, as it were, embody an abstraction is no mere pander to the\nsenses. And who that has a modicum of the imaginative would assert\nof one of Haydn's Sonatas, that its effect on him was no other than\nsensuous? Or who would ask for the _story_ in one of our gorgeous\nautumnal sunsets?\n\nIn subjects of a grave or elevated kind, the Variety will be found to\ndiminish in the same degree in which they approach the Sublime. In the\nraising of Lazarus, by Lievens, we have an example of the smallest\npossible number of parts which the nature of such a subject would\nadmit. And, though a different conception might authorize a much\ngreater number, yet we do not feel in this any deficiency; indeed, it\nmay be doubted if the addition of even one more part would not be felt\nas obtrusive.\n\nBy the term _parts_ we are not to be understood as including the\nminutiae of dress or ornament, or even the several members of a group,\nwhich come more properly under the head of detail; we apply the term\nonly to those prominent divisions which constitute the essential\nfeatures of a composition. Of these the Sublime admits the fewest. Nor\nis the limitation arbitrary. By whatever causes the stronger passions\nor higher faculties of the mind become pleasurably excited, if they be\npushed as it were beyond their supposed limits, till a sense of the\nindefinite seems almost to partake of the infinite, to these causes we\naffix the epithet _Sublime._ It is needless to inquire if such\nan effect can be produced by any thing short of the vast and\noverpowering, much less by the gradual approach or successive\naccumulation of any number of separate forces. Every one can answer\nfrom his own experience. We may also add, that the pleasure which\nbelongs to the deeper emotions always trenches on pain; and the sense\nof pain leads to reaction; so that, singly roused, they will rise\nbut to fall, like men at a breach,--leaving a conquest, not over the\nliving, but the dead. The effect of the Sublime must therefore be\nsudden, and to be sudden, simple, scarce seen till felt; coming like\na blast, bending and levelling every thing before it, till it passes\ninto space. So comes this marvellous emotion; and so vanishes,--to\nwhere no straining of our mortal faculties will ever carry them.\n\nTo prevent misapprehension, we may here observe, that, though the\nparts be few, it does not necessarily follow that they should always\nconsist of simple or single objects. This narrow inference has often\nled to the error of mistaking mere space for grandeur, especially\nwith those who have wrought rather from theory than from the true\npossession of their subjects. Hence, by the mechanical arrangement\nof certain large and sweeping masses of light and shadow, we are\nsometimes surprised into a momentary expectation of a sublime\nimpression, when a nearer approach gives us only the notion of a vast\nblank. And the error lies in the misconception of a mass. For a mass\nis not a _thing_, but the condition of _things_; into which,\nshould the subject require it, a legion, a host, may be compressed,\nan army with banners,--yet so that they break not the unity of their\nPart, that technic form to which they are subordinate.\n\nThe difference between a Part and a Mass is, that a Mass may include,\n_per se_, many Parts, yet, in relation to a Whole, is no more\nthan a single component. Perhaps the same distinction may be more\nsimply expressed, if we define it as only a larger division, including\nseveral _parts_, which may be said to be analogous to what is\ntermed the detail of a _Part_. Look at the ocean in a storm,--at\nthat single wave. How it grows before us, building up its waters as\nwith conscious life, till its huge head overlooks the mast! A million\nof lines intersect its surface, a myriad of bubbles fleck it with\nlight; yet its terrible unity remains unbroken. Not a bubble or a line\ngives a thought of minuteness; they flash and flit, ere the eye can\ncount them, leaving only their aggregate, in the indefinite sense\nof multitudinous motion: take them away, and you take from the\n_mass_ the very sign of its power, that fearful impetus which\nmakes it what it is,--a moving mountain of water.\n\nWe have thus endeavoured, in the opposite characters of the Sublime\nand the Gay or Magnificent, to exhibit the two extremes of Variety; of\nthe intermediate degrees it is unnecessary to speak, since in these\ntwo is included all that is applicable to the rest.\n\nThough it is of vital importance to every composition that there be\nvariety of Lines, little can be said on the subject in addition to\nwhat has been advanced in relation to parts, that is, to shape and\nquantity; both having a common origin. By a line in Composition is\nmeant something very different from the geometrical definition.\nOriginally, it was no doubt used as a metaphor; but the needs of\nArt have long since converted this, and many other words of like\napplication, (as _tone_, &c.,) into technical terms. _Line_\nthus signifies the course or medium through which the eye is led from\none part of the picture to another. The indication of this course is\nvarious and multiform, appertaining equally to shape, to color, and to\nlight and dark; in a word, to whatever attracts and keeps the eye in\nmotion. For the regulation of these lines there is no rule absolute,\nexcept that they vary and unite; nor is the last strictly necessary,\nit being sufficient if they so terminate that the transition from one\nto another is made naturally, and without effort, by the imagination.\nNor can any laws be laid down as to their peculiar character: this\nmust depend on the nature of the subject.\n\nIn the wild and stormy scenes of Salvator Rosa, they break upon us\nas with the angular flash of lightning; the eye is dashed up one\nprecipice only to be dashed down another; then, suddenly hurried to\nthe sky, it shoots up, almost in a direct line, to some sharp-edged\nrock; whence pitched, as it were, into a sea of clouds, bellying with\ncircles, it partakes their motion, and seems to reel, to roll, and to\nplunge with them into the depths of air.\n\nIf we pass from Salvator to Claude, we shall find a system of lines\ntotally different. Our first impression from Claude is that of perfect\n_unity_, and this we have even before we are conscious of a\nsingle image; as if, circumscribing his scenes by a magic circle, he\nhad imposed his own mood on all who entered it. The _spell_ then\nopens ere it seems to have begun, acting upon us with a vague sense of\nlimitless expanse, yet so continuous, so gentle, so imperceptible in\nits remotest gradations, as scarcely to be felt, till, combining\nwith unity, we find the feeling embodied in the complete image of\nintellectual repose,--fulness and rest. The mind thus disposed, the\ncharmed eye glides into the scene: a soft, undulating light leads it\non, from bank to bank, from shrub to shrub; now leaping and sparkling\nover pebbly brooks and sunny sands; now fainter and fainter, dying\naway down shady slopes, then seemingly quenched in some secluded dell;\nyet only for a moment,--for a dimmer ray again carries it onward,\ngently winding among the boles of trees and rambling vines, that,\nskirting the ascent, seem to hem in the twilight; then emerging\ninto day, it flashes in sheets over towers and towns, and woods and\nstreams, when it finally dips into an ocean, so far off, so twin-like\nwith the sky, that the doubtful horizon, unmarked by a line, leaves no\npoint of rest: and now, as in a flickering arch, the fascinated eye\nseems to sail upward like a bird, wheeling its flight through a\nmottled labyrinth of clouds, on to the zenith; whence, gently\ninflected by some shadowy mass, it slants again downward to a mass\nstill deeper, and still to another, and another, until it falls into\nthe darkness of some massive tree,--focused like midnight in the\nbrightest noon: there stops the eye, instinctively closing, and giving\nplace to the Soul, there to repose and to dream her dreams of romance\nand love.\n\nFrom these two examples of their general effect, some notion may be\ngathered of the different systems of the two Artists; and though\nno mention has been made of the particular lines employed, their\ndistinctive character may readily be inferred from the kind of motion\ngiven to the eye in the descriptions we have attempted. In the\nrapid, abrupt, contrasted, whirling movement in the one, we have an\nexposition of an irregular combination of curves and angles; while the\nsimple combination of the parabola and the serpentine will account for\nall the imperceptible transitions in the other.\n\nIt would be easy to accumulate examples from other Artists who differ\nin the economy of line not only from these but from each other; as\nRaffaelle, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Titian, Poussin,--in a word,\nevery painter deserving the name of master: for lines here may be\ncalled the tracks of thought, in which we follow the author's mind\nthrough his imaginary creations. They hold, indeed, the same relation\nto Painting that versification does to Poetry, an element of style;\nfor what is meant by a line in Painting is analogous to that which\nin the sister art distinguishes the abrupt gait of Crabbe from the\nsauntering walk of Cowley, and the \"long, majestic march\" of Dryden\nfrom the surging sweep of Milton.\n\nOf Continuity little needs be said, since its uses are implied in the\nexplanation of Line; indeed, all that can be added will be expressed\nin its essential relation to a _whole_, in which alone it differs\nfrom a mere line. For, though a line (as just explained) supposes a\ncontinuous course, yet a line, _per se_, does not necessarily\nimply any relation to other lines. It will still be a line, though\nstanding alone; but the principle of continuity may be called\nthe unifying spirit of every line. It is therefore that we have\ndistinguished it as a separate principle.\n\nIn fact, if we judge from feeling, the only true test, it is no\nparadox to say that the excess of variety must inevitably end in\nmonotony; for, as soon as the sense of fatigue begins, every new\nvariety but adds to the pain, till the succeeding impressions are at\nlast resolved into continuous pain. But, supposing a limit to variety,\nwhere the mind may be pleasurably excited, the very sense of pleasure,\nwhen it reaches the extreme point, will create the desire of renewing\nit, and naturally carry it back to the point of starting; thus\nsuperinducing, with the renewed enjoyment, the fulness of pleasure, in\nthe sense of a whole.\n\nIt is by this summing up, as it were, of the memory, through\nrecurrence, not that we perceive,--which is instantaneous,--but that\nwe enjoy any thing as a whole. If we have not observed it in others,\nsome of us, perhaps, may remember it in ourselves, when we have stood\nbefore some fine picture, though with a sense of pleasure, yet for\nmany minutes in a manner abstracted,--silently passing through all its\nharmonious transitions without the movement of a muscle, and hardly\nconscious of action, till we have suddenly found ourselves returning\non our steps. Then it was,--as if we had no eyes till then,--that\nthe magic Whole poured in upon us, and vouched for its truth in an\noutbreak of rapture.\n\nThe fourth and last division of our subject is the Harmony of Parts;\nor the essential agreement of one part with another, and of each with\nthe whole. In addition to our first general definition, we may further\nobserve, that by a Whole in Painting is signified the complete\nexpression, by means of form, color, light, and shadow, of one\nthought, or series of thoughts, having for their end some\nparticular truth, or sentiment, or action, or mood of mind. We say\n_thought_, because no images, however put together, can ever\nbe separated by the mind from other and extraneous images, so as to\ncomprise a positive whole, unless they be limited by some intellectual\nboundary. A picture wanting this may have fine parts, but is not a\nComposition, which implies parts united to each other, and also suited\nto some specific purpose, otherwise they cannot be known as united.\nSince Harmony, therefore, cannot be conceived of without reference to\na whole, so neither can a whole be imagined without fitness of parts.\nTo give this fitness, then, is the ultimate task and test of genius:\nit is, in fact, calling form and life out of what before was but a\nchaos of materials, and making them the subject and exponents of the\nwill. As the master-principle, also, it is the disposer, regulator,\nand modifier of shape, line, and quantity, adding, diminishing,\nchanging, shaping, till it becomes clear and intelligible, and it\nfinally manifests itself in pleasurable identity with the harmony\nwithin us.\n\nTo reduce the operation of this principle to precise rules is,\nperhaps, without the province of human power: we might else expect to\nsee poets and painters made by recipe. As in many other operations of\nthe mind, we must here be content to note a few of the more tangible\nfacts, if we may be allowed the phrase, which have occasionally been\ngathered by observation during the process. The first fact presented\nis, that equal quantities, when coming together, produce monotony,\nand, if at all admissible, are only so when absolutely needed, at\na proper distance, to echo back or recall the theme, which would\notherwise be lost in the excess of variety. We speak of quantity here\nas of a mass, not of the minutiae; for _the essential components_\nof a part may often be _equal quantities_, (as in a piece of\narchitecture, of armour, &c.,) which are analogous to poetic feet, for\ninstance, a spondee. The same effect we find from parallel lines and\nrepetition of shapes. Hence we obtain the law of a limited variety.\nThe next is, that the quantities must be so disposed as to balance\neach other; otherwise, if all or too many of the larger be on one\nside, they will endanger the imaginary circle, or other figure, by\nwhich every composition is supposed to be bounded, making it appear\n\"lop-sided,\" or to be falling either in upon the smaller quantities,\nor out of the picture: from which we infer the necessity of balance.\nIf, without others to counteract and restrain them, the parts\nconverge, the eye, being forced to the centre, becomes stationary; in\nlike manner, if all diverge, it is forced to fly off in tangents:\nas if the great laws of Attraction and Repulsion were here also\nessential, and illustrated in miniature. If we add to these Breadth, I\nbelieve we shall have enumerated all the leading phenomena of\nHarmony, which experience has enabled us to establish as rules. By\n_breadth_ is meant such a massing of the quantities, whether\nby color, light, or shadow, as shall enable the eye to pass without\nobstruction, and by easy transitions, from one to another, so that it\nshall appear to take in the whole at a glance. This may be likened to\nboth the exordium and peroration of a discourse, including as well\nthe last as the first general idea. It is, in other words, a simple,\nconnected, and concise exposition and summary of what the artist\nintends.\n\nWe have thus endeavoured to arrange and to give a logical permanency\nto the several principles of Composition. It is not to be supposed,\nhowever, that in these we have every principle that might be named;\nbut they are all, as we conceive, that are of universal application.\nOf other minor, or rather personal ones, since they pertain to the\nindividual, the number can only be limited by the variety of the\nhuman intellect, to which these may be considered as so many simple\nelementary guides; not to create genius, but to enable it to\nunderstand itself, and by a distinct knowledge of its own operations\nto correct its mistakes,--in a word, to establish the landmarks\nbetween the flats of commonplace and the barrens of extravagance. And,\nthough the personal or individual principles referred to may not with\npropriety be cited as examples in a general treatise like the present,\nthey are not only not to be overlooked, but are to be regarded by the\nstudent as legitimate objects of study. To the truism, that we can\nonly judge of other minds by a knowledge of our own, we may add\nits converse as especially true. In that mysterious tract of the\nintellect, which we call the Imagination, there would seem to lie\nhid thousands of unknown forms, of which we are often for years\nunconscious, until they start up awakened by the footsteps of a\nstranger. Hence it is that the greatest geniuses, as presenting a\nwider field for excitement, are generally found to be the widest\nlikers; not so much from affinity, or because they possess the\nprecise kinds of excellence which they admire, but often from the\n_differences_ which these very excellences in others, as the\nexciting cause, awaken in themselves. Such men may be said to be\nendowed with a double vision, an inward and an outward; the inward\nseeing not unfrequently the reverse of what is seen by the outward.\nIt was this which caused Annibal Caracci to remark, on seeing for the\nfirst time a picture by Caravaggio, that he thought a style totally\nopposite might be made very captivating; and the hint, it is said,\nsunk deep into and was not lost on Guido, who soon after realized what\nhis master had thus imagined. Perhaps no one ever caught more from\nothers than Raffaelle. I do not allude to his \"borrowing,\" so\ningeniously, not soundly, defended by Sir Joshua, but rather to his\nexcitability, (if I may here apply a modern term,)--that inflammable\ntemperament, which took fire, as it were, from the very friction\nof the atmosphere. For there was scarce an excellence, within his\nknowledge, of his predecessors or contemporaries, which did not in a\ngreater or less degree contribute to the developement of his powers;\nnot as presenting models of imitation, but as shedding new light on\nhis own mind, and opening to view its hidden treasures. Such to him\nwere the forms of the Antique, of Leonardo da Vinci, and of Michael\nAngelo, and the breadth and color of Fra Bartolomeo,--lights that\nfirst made him acquainted with himself, not lights that he followed;\nfor he was a follower of none. To how many others he was indebted for\nhis impulses cannot now be known; but the new impetus he was known to\nhave received from every new excellence has led many to believe, that,\nhad he lived to see the works of Titian, he would have added to his\ngrace, character, and form, and with equal originality, the splendor\nof color. \"The design of Michael Angelo and the color of Titian,\" was\nthe inscription of Tintoretto over the door of his painting-room.\nWhether he intended to designate these two artists as his future\nmodels matters not; but that he did not follow them is evidenced in\nhis works. Nor, indeed, could he: the temptation to _follow_,\nwhich his youthful admiration had excited, was met by an interdiction\nnot easily withstood,--the decree of his own genius. And yet the\ndecree had probably never been heard but for these very masters. Their\npresence stirred him; and, when he thought of serving, his teeming\nmind poured out its abundance, making _him_ a master to future\ngenerations. To the forms of Michael Angelo he was certainly indebted\nfor the elevation of his own; there, however, the inspiration ended.\nWith Titian he was nearly allied in genius; yet he thought rather with\nthan after him,--at times even beyond him. Titian, indeed, may be said\nto have first opened his eyes to the mysteries of nature; but they\nwere no sooner opened, than he rushed into them with a rapidity and\ndaring unwont to the more cautious spirit of his master; and, though\nirregular, eccentric, and often inferior, yet sometimes he made his\nway to poetical regions, of whose celestial hues even Titian himself\nhad never dreamt.\n\nWe might go on thus with every great name in Art. But these examples\nare enough to show how much even the most original minds, not only\nmay, but _must_, owe to others; for the social law of our nature\napplies no less to the intellect than to the affections. When applied\nto genius, it may be called the social inspiration, the simple\nstatement of which seems to us of itself a solution of the\noft-repeated question, \"Why is it that genius always appears in\nclusters?\" To Nature, indeed, we must all at last recur, as to the\nonly true and permanent foundation of real excellence. But Nature is\nopen to all men alike, in her beauty, her majesty, her grandeur, and\nher sublimity. Yet who will assert that all men see, or, if they see,\nare impressed by these her attributes alike? Nay, so great is the\ndifference, that one might almost suppose them inhabitants of\ndifferent worlds. Of Claude, for instance, it is hardly a metaphor to\nsay that he lived in two worlds during his natural life; for Claude\nthe pastry-cook could never have seen the same world that was made\nvisible to Claude the painter. It was human sympathy, acting through\nhuman works, that gave birth to his intellect at the age of forty.\nThere is something, perhaps, ludicrous in the thought of an infant of\nforty. Yet the fact is a solemn one, that thousands die whose minds\nhave never been born.\n\nWe could not, perhaps, instance a stronger confutation of the vulgar\nerror which opposes learning to genius, than the simple history of\nthis remarkable man. In all that respects the mind, he was literally a\nchild, till accident or necessity carried him to Rome; for, when the\noffice of color-grinder, added to that of cook, by awakening his\ncuriosity, first excited a love for the Art, his progress through its\nrudiments seems to have been scarcely less slow and painful than that\nof a child through the horrors of the alphabet. It was the struggle of\none who was learning to think; but, the rudiments being mastered, he\nfound himself suddenly possessed, not as yet of thought, but of new\nforms of language; then came thoughts, pouring from his mind, and\nfilling them as moulds, without which they had never, perhaps, had\neither shape or consciousness.\n\nNow what was this new language but the product of other minds,--of\nsuccessive minds, amending, enlarging, elaborating, through successive\nages, till, fitted to all its wants, it became true to the Ideal, and\nthe vernacular tongue of genius through all time? The first inventor\nof verse was but the prophetic herald of Homer, Shakspeare, and\nMilton. And what was Rome then but the great University of Art, where\nall this accumulated learning was treasured?\n\nMuch has been said of self-taught geniuses, as opposed to those who\nhave been instructed by others: but the distinction, it appears to\nus, is without a difference; for it matters not whether we learn in a\nschool or by ourselves,--we cannot learn any thing without in some way\nrecurring to other minds. Let us imagine a poet who had never read,\nnever heard, never conversed with another. Now if he will not be\ntaught in any thing by another, he must strictly preserve this\nindependent negation. Truly the verses of such a poet would be a\nmiracle. Of similar self-taught painters we have abundant examples in\nour aborigines,--but nowhere else.\n\nBut, while we maintain, as a positive law of our nature, the necessity\nof mental intercourse with our fellow-creatures, in order to the full\ndevelopement of the _individual_, we are far from implying that\nany thing which is actually taken from others can by any process\nbecome our own, that is, original. We may reverse, transpose,\ndiminish, or add to it, and so skilfully that no scam or mutilation\nshall be detected; and yet we shall not make it appear original,--in\nother words, _true_, the offspring of _one_ mind. A borrowed\nthought will always be borrowed; as it will be felt as such in its\n_effect_, even while we are ourselves unconscious of the fact:\nfor it will want that _effect of life_, which only the first mind\ncan give it[3].\n\n\nOf the multifarious retailers of the second-hand in style, the class\nis so numerous as to make a selection difficult: they meet us at every\nstep in the history of the Art. One instance, however, may suffice,\nand we select Vernet, as uniting in himself a singular and striking\nexample of the _false_ and the _true_; and also as the least\ninvidious instance, inasmuch as we may prove our position by opposing\nhim to himself.\n\nIn the landscapes of Vernet, (when not mere views,) we see the\nimitator of Salvator, or rather copyist of his lines; and these we\nhave in all their angular nakedness, where rocks, trees, and mountains\nare so jagged, contorted, and tumbled about, that nothing but an\nexplosion could account for their assemblage. They have not the\nrelation which we sometimes find even in a random collocation, as in\nthe accidental pictures of a discolored wall; for the careful hand\nof the contriver is traced through all this disorder; nay, the very\nexecution, the conventional dash of pencil, betrays what a lawyer\nwould call the _malice prepense_ of the Artist in their strange\ndisfigurement. To many this may appear like hypercriticism; but we\nsincerely believe that no one, even among his admirers, has ever been\ndeceived into a real sympathy with such technical flourishes: they\nare felt as factitious; as mere diagrams of composition deduced from\npictures.\n\nNow let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he wrought from his\nown mind. A dark leaden atmosphere prepares us for something fearful:\nsuddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous, bursts upon us;\nand we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other thought from the\nmind: the terrible vision now seizes the imagination, filling it with\nsound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious waves one upon\nanother dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath, towards the\ndevoted ship: the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar through\nher shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn hope,\nthe close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag: a terrible\nfascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore looms\non her lee: then comes the dreadful cry of \"Breakers ahead!\" the crew\nstand appalled, and the master's trumpet is soundless at his lips.\nThis is the uproar of nature, and we _feel_ it to be _true_;\nfor here every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds,\nthe huddled waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast\ninto the sharpest angles, all agree, opposed as they seem,--evolving\nharmony out of apparent discord. And this is Genius, which no\ncriticism can ever disprove.\n\nBut all great names, it is said, must have their shadows. In our Art\nthey have many shadows, or rather I should say, reflections; which\nare more or less distinct according to their proximity to the living\noriginals, and, like the images in opposite mirrors, becoming\nthemselves reflected and re-reflected with a kind of battledoor\nalternation, grow dimmer and dimmer till they vanish from mere\ndistance.\n\nThus have the great schools of Italy, Flanders, and Holland lived and\nwalked after death, till even their ghosts have become familiar to us.\n\nWe would not, however, be understood as asserting that we receive\npleasure only from original works: this would be contradicting\nthe general experience. We admit, on the contrary, that there are\nhundreds, nay, thousands, of pictures having no pretensions to\noriginality of any kind, which still afford pleasure; as, indeed,\ndo many things out of the Art, which we know to be second-hand, or\nimperfect, and even trifling. Thus grace of manner, for instance,\nthough wholly unaided by a single definite quality, will often delight\nus, and a ready elocution, with scarce a particle of sense, make\ncommonplace agreeable; and it seems to be, that the pain of mental\ninertness renders action so desirable, that the mind instinctively\nsurrounds itself with myriads of objects, having little to recommend\nthem but the property of keeping it from stagnating. And we are\nfar from denying a certain value to any of these, provided they\nbe innocent: there are times when even the wisest man will find\ncommonplace wholesome. All we have attempted to show is, that the\neffect of an original work, as opposed to an imitation, is marked by\na difference, not of degree merely, but of kind; and that this\ndifference cannot fail to be felt, not, indeed, by every one, but by\nany competent judge, that is, any one in whom is developed, by\nnatural exercise, that internal sense by which the spirit of life is\ndiscerned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery original work becomes such from the infusion, so to speak, of\nthe mind of the Author; and of this the fresh materials of nature\nalone seem susceptible. The imitated works of man cannot be endued\nwith a second life, that is, with a second mind: they are to the\nimitator as air already breathed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat has been said in relation to Form--that the works of our\npredecessors, so far as they are recognized as true, are to be\nconsidered as an extension of Nature, and therefore proper objects\nof study--is equally applicable to Composition. But it is not to be\nunderstood that this extended Nature (if we may so term it) is in any\ninstance to be imitated as a _whole_, which would be bringing our\nminds into bondage to another; since, as already shown in the second\nDiscourse, every original work is of necessity impressed with the mind\nof its author. If it be asked, then, what is the advantage of such\nstudy, we shall endeavour to show, that it is not merely, as some have\nsupposed, in enriching the mind with materials, but rather in widening\nour view of excellence, and, by consequent excitement, expanding our\nown powers of observation, reflection, and performance. By increasing\nthe power of performance, we mean enlarging our knowledge of the\ntechnical process, or the medium through which thought is expressed;\na most important species of knowledge, which, if to be otherwise\nattained, is at least most readily learned from those who have left us\nthe result of their experience. This technical process, which has been\nwell called the language of the Art, includes, of course, all that\npertains to Composition, which, as the general medium, also contains\nmost of the elements of this peculiar tongue.\n\nFrom the gradual progress of the various arts of civilization, it\nwould seem that only under the action of some great _social_ law\ncan man arrive at the full developement of his powers. In our\nArt especially is this true; for the experience of one man must\nnecessarily be limited, particularly if compared with the endless\nvarieties of form and effect which diversify the face of Nature; and\nthe finest of these, too, in their very nature transient, or of rare\noccurrence, and only known to occur to those who are prepared to seize\nthem in their rapid transit; so that in one short life, and with but\none set of senses, the greatest genius can learn but little. The\nArtist, therefore, must needs owe much to the living, and more to the\ndead, who are virtually his companions, inasmuch as through their\nworks they still live to our sympathies. Besides, in our great\npredecessors we may be said to possess a multiplied life, if life\nbe measured by the number of acts,--which, in this case, we may all\nappropriate to ourselves, as it were by a glance. For the dead in Art\nmay well be likened to the hardy pioneers of our own country, who have\nsuccessively cleared before us the swamps and forests that would have\nobstructed our progress, and opened to us lands which the efforts of\nno individual, however persevering, would enable him to reach.\n\n\n\n\nAphorisms.\n\nSentences Written by Mr. Allston on the Walls of His Studio.\n\n\n\n1. \"No genuine work of Art ever was, or ever can be, produced but for\nits own sake; if the painter does not conceive to please himself, he\nwill not finish to please the world.\"--FUSELI.\n\n2. If an Artist love his Art for its own sake, he will delight in\nexcellence wherever he meets it, as well in the work of another as in\nhis own. This is the test of a true love.\n\n3. Nor is this genuine love compatible with a craving for distinction;\nwhere the latter predominates, it is sure to betray itself before\ncontemporary excellence, either by silence, or (as a bribe to the\nconscience) by a modicum of praise.\n\nThe enthusiasm of a mind so influenced is confined to itself.\n\n4. Distinction is the consequence, never the object, of a great mind.\n\n5. The love of gain never made a Painter; but it has marred many.\n\n6. The most common disguise of Envy is in the praise of what is\nsubordinate.\n\n7. Selfishness in Art, as in other things, is sensibility kept at\nhome.\n\n8. The Devil's heartiest laugh is at a detracting witticism. Hence the\nphrase \"devilish good\" has sometimes a literal meaning.\n\n9. The most intangible, and therefore the worst, kind of lie is a\nhalf truth. This is the peculiar device of a _conscientious_\ndetractor.\n\n10. Reverence is an ennobling sentiment; it is felt to be degrading\nonly by the vulgar mind, which would escape the sense of its own\nlittleness by elevating itself into an antagonist of what is above it.\nHe that has no pleasure in looking up is not fit so much as to look\ndown. Of such minds are mannerists in Art; in the world, tyrants of\nall sorts.\n\n11. No right judgment can ever be formed on any subject having a moral\nor intellectual bearing without benevolence; for so strong is man's\nnatural self-bias, that, without this restraining principle, he\ninsensibly becomes a competitor in all such cases presented to his\nmind; and, when the comparison is thus made personal, unless the odds\nbe immeasurably against him, his decision will rarely be impartial.\nIn other words, no one can see any thing as it really is through the\nmisty spectacles of self-love. We must wish well to another in order\nto do him justice. Now the virtue in this good-will is not to blind us\nto his faults, but to our own rival and interposing merits.\n\n12. In the same degree that we overrate ourselves, we shall underrate\nothers; for injustice allowed at home is not likely to be corrected\nabroad. Never, therefore, expect justice from a vain man; if he has\nthe negative magnanimity not to disparage you, it is the most you can\nexpect.\n\n13. The Phrenologists are right in placing the organ of self-love in\nthe back of the head, it being there where a vain man carries his\nintellectual light; the consequence of which is, that every man he\napproaches is obscured by his own shadow.\n\n14. Nothing is rarer than a solitary lie; for lies breed like Surinam\ntoads; you cannot tell one but out it comes with a hundred young ones\non its back.\n\n15. If the whole world should agree to speak nothing but truth, what\nan abridgment it would make of speech! And what an unravelling there\nwould be of the invisible webs which men, like so many spiders, now\nweave about each other! But the contest between Truth and Falsehood\nis now pretty well balanced. Were it not so, and had the latter the\nmastery, even language would soon become extinct, from its very\nuselessness. The present superfluity of words is the result of the\nwarfare.\n\n16. A witch's skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind,\nthan the human _eye_ lie against fact; but the truth will oftener\nquiver through lips with a lie upon them.\n\n17. An open brow with a clenched hand shows any thing but an open\npurpose.\n\n18. It is a hard matter for a man to lie _all over_. Nature\nhaving provided king's evidence in almost every member. The hand will\nsometimes act as a vane to show which way the wind blows, when every\nfeature is set the other way; the knees smite together, and sound the\nalarm of fear, under a fierce countenance; and the legs shake with\nanger, when all above is calm.\n\n19. Nature observes a variety even in her correspondences; insomuch\nthat in parts which seem but repetitions there will be found a\ndifference. For instance, in the human countenance, the two sides of\nwhich are never identical. Whenever she deviates into monotony,\nthe deviation is always marked as an exception by some striking\ndeficiency; as in idiots, who are the only persons that laugh equally\non both sides of the mouth.\n\nThe insipidity of many of the antique Statues may be traced to the\nfalse assumption of identity in the corresponding parts. No work\nwrought by _feeling_ (which, after all, is the ultimate rule of\nGenius) was ever marked by this monotony.\n\n20. He is but half an orator who turns his hearers into spectators.\nThe best gestures (_quoad_ the speaker) are those which he cannot\nhelp. An unconscious thump of the fist or jerk of the elbow is more\nto the purpose, (whatever that may be,) than the most graceful\n_cut-and-dried_ action. It matters not whether the orator\npersonates a trip-hammer or a wind-mill; if his mill but move with the\ngrist, or his hammer knead the iron beneath it, he will not fail of\nhis effect. An impertinent gesture is more likely to knock down the\norator than his opponent.\n\n21. The only true independence is in humility; for the humble man\nexacts nothing, and cannot be mortified,--expects nothing, and cannot\nbe disappointed. Humility is also a healing virtue; it will cicatrize\na thousand wounds, which pride would keep for ever open. But humility\nis not the virtue of a fool; since it is not consequent upon any\ncomparison between ourselves and others, but between what we are and\nwhat we ought to be,--which no man ever was.\n\n22. The greatest of all fools is the proud fool,--who is at the mercy\nof every fool he meets.\n\n23. There is an essential meanness in the wish to _get the\nbetter_ of any one. The only competition worthy, of a wise man is\nwith himself.\n\n24. He that argues for victory is but a gambler in words, seeking to\nenrich himself by another's loss.\n\n25. Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these\nare, of course, very fastidious critics; for, knowing little, they can\nfind but little to like.\n\n26. The Painter who seeks popularity in Art closes the door upon his\nown genius.\n\n27. Popular excellence in one age is but the _mechanism_ of what\nwas good in the preceding; in Art, the _technic_.\n\n28. Make no man your idol, for the best man must have faults; and his\nfaults will insensibly become yours, in addition to your own. This is\nas true in Art as in morals.\n\n29. A man of genius should not aim at praise, except in the form of\n_sympathy_; this assures him of his success, since it meets the\nfeeling which possessed himself.\n\n30. Originality in Art is the individualizing the Universal; in other\nwords, the impregnating some general truth with the individual mind.\n\n31. The painter who is content with the praise of the world in respect\nto what does not satisfy himself, is not an artist, but an artisan;\nfor though his reward be only praise, his pay is that of a\nmechanic,--for his time, and not for his art.\n\n32. _Reputation_ is but a synonyme of _popularity_;\ndependent on suffrage, to be increased or diminished at the will of\nthe voters. It is the creature, so to speak, of its particular age, or\nrather of a particular state of society; consequently, dying with that\nwhich sustained it. Hence we can scarcely go over a page of history,\nthat we do not, as in a church-yard, tread upon some buried\nreputation. But fame cannot be voted down, having its immediate\nfoundation in the essential. It is the eternal shadow of excellence,\nfrom which it can never be separated; nor is it ever made visible but\nin the light of an intellect kindred with that of its author. It is\nthat light which projects the shadow which is seen of the multitude,\nto be wondered at and reverenced, even while so little comprehended\nas to be often confounded with the substance,--the substance being\nadmitted from the shadow, as a matter of faith. It is the economy of\nProvidence to provide such lights: like rising and setting stars, they\nfollow each other through successive ages: and thus the monumental\nform of Genius stands for ever relieved against its own imperishable\nshadow.\n\n33. All excellence of every kind is but variety of truth. If we wish,\nthen, for something beyond the true, we wish for that which is false.\nAccording to this test, how little truth is there in Art! Little\nindeed! but how much is that little to him who feels it!\n\n34. Fame does not depend on the _will_ of any man, but Reputation\nmay be given or taken away. Fame is the sympathy of kindred\nintellects, and sympathy is not a subject of _willing_; while\nReputation, having its source in the popular voice, is a sentence\nwhich may either be uttered or suppressed at pleasure. Reputation,\nbeing essentially contemporaneous, is always at the mercy of\nthe envious and the ignorant; but Fame, whose very birth is\n_posthumous_, and which is only known _to exist by the echo of\nits footsteps through congenial minds_, can neither be increased\nnor diminished by any degree of will.\n\n35. What _light_ is in the natural world, such is _fame_\nin the intellectual; both requiring an _atmosphere_ in order\nto become perceptible. Hence the fame of Michael Angelo is, to some\nminds, a nonentity; even as the sun itself would be invisible _in\nvacuo_.\n\n36. Fame has no necessary conjunction with Praise: it may exist without\nthe breath of a word; it is a _recognition of excellence_, which _must\nbe felt_, but need not be _spoken_. Even the envious must feel it,--feel\nit, and hate it, in silence.\n\n37. I cannot believe that any man who deserved fame ever labored for\nit; that is, _directly_. For, as fame is but the contingent of\nexcellence, it would be like an attempt to project a shadow, before\nits substance was obtained. Many, however, have so fancied. \"I write,\nI paint, for fame,\" has often been repeated: it should have been, \"I\nwrite, I paint, for reputation.\" All anxiety, therefore, about Fame\nshould be placed to the account of Reputation.\n\n38. A man may be pretty sure that he has not attained\n_excellence_, when it is not all in all to him. Nay, I may add,\nthat, if he looks beyond it, he has not reached it. This is not the\nless true for being good _Irish_.\n\n39. An original mind is rarely understood, until it has been\n_reflected_ from some half-dozen congenial with it, so averse\nare men to admitting the _true_ in an unusual form; whilst any\nnovelty, however fantastic, however false, is greedily swallowed. Nor\nis this to be wondered at; for all truth demands a response, and few\npeople care to _think_, yet they must have something to supply\nthe place of thought. Every mind would appear original, if every man\nhad the power of _projecting_ his own into the mind of others.\n\n40. All effort at originality must end either in the quaint or the\nmonstrous. For no man knows himself as an original; he can only\nbelieve it on the report of others to whom _he is made known_, as\nhe is by the projecting power before spoken of.\n\n41. There is one thing which no man, however generously disposed, can\n_give_, but which every one, however poor, is bound to _pay_. This is\nPraise. He cannot give it, because it is not his own,--since what is\ndependent for its very existence on something in another can never\nbecome to him a _possession_; nor can he justly withhold it, when the\npresence of merit claims it as a _consequence_. As praise, then, cannot\nbe made a _gift_, so, neither, when not his due, can any man receive it:\nhe may think he does, but he receives only _words_; for _desert_ being\nthe essential condition of praise, there can be no reality in the one\nwithout the other. This is no fanciful statement; for, though praise may\nbe withheld by the ignorant or envious, it cannot be but that, in the\ncourse of time, an existing merit will, on _some one_, produce its\neffects; inasmuch as the existence of any cause without its effect is an\nimpossibility. A fearful truth lies at the bottom of this, an\n_irreversible justice_ for the weal or woe of him who confirms or\nviolates it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[From the back of a pencil sketch.]\n\nLet no man trust to the gentleness, the generosity, or seeming\ngoodness of his heart, in the hope that they alone can safely bear him\nthrough the temptations of this world. This is a state of probation,\nand a perilous passage to the true beginning of life, where even the\nbest natures need continually to be reminded of their weakness, and\nto find their only security in steadily referring all their thoughts,\nacts, affections, to the ultimate end of their being: yet where,\nimperfect as we are, there is no obstacle too mighty, no temptation\ntoo strong, to the truly humble in heart, who, distrusting themselves,\nseek to be sustained only by that holy Being who is life and power,\nand who, in his love and mercy, has promised to give to those that\nask.--Such were my reflections, to which I was giving way on reading\nthis melancholy story.\n\nIf he is satisfied with them, he may rest assured that he is neither\nfitted for this world nor the next. Even in this, there are wrongs and\nsorrows which no human remedy can reach;--no, tears cannot restore\nwhat is lost.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Written in a book of sketches, with a pencil.]\n\nA real debt of gratitude--that is, founded on a disinterested act of\nkindness--cannot be cancelled by any subsequent unkindness on the part\nof our benefactor. If the favor be of a pecuniary nature, we may,\nindeed, by returning an equal or greater sum, balance the moneyed part;\nbut we cannot _liquidate_ the _kind motive_ by the setting off against\nit any number of unkind ones. For an after injury can no more _undo_ a\nprevious kindness, than we can _prevent_ in the future what has happened\nin the past. So neither can a good act undo an ill one: a fearful truth!\nFor good and evil have a moral _life_, which nothing in time can\nextinguish; the instant they _exist_, they start for Eternity. How,\nthen, can a man who has _once_ sinned, and who has not of _himself_\ncleansed his soul, be fit for heaven where no sin can enter? I seek not\nto enter into the mystery of the _atonement_, \"which even the angels\nsought to comprehend and could not\"; but I feel its truth in an\nunutterable conviction, and that, without it, all flesh must perish.\nEqually deep, too, and unalienable, is my conviction that \"the fruit of\nsin is misery.\" A second birth to the soul is therefore a necessity\nwhich sin _forces_ upon us. Ay,--but not against the desperate _will_\nthat rejects it.\n\nThis conclusion was not anticipated when I wrote the first sentence of\nthe preceding paragraph. But it does not surprise me. For it is but a\nrecurrence of what I have repeatedly experienced; namely, that I never\nlighted on _any truth_ which I _inwardly felt_ as such, however\napparently remote from our religious being, (as, for instance, in the\nphilosophy of my art,) that, by following it out, did not find its\nillustration and confirmation in some great doctrine of the Bible,--the\nonly true philosophy, the sole fountain of light, where the dark\nquestions of the understanding which have so long stood, like chaotic\nspectres, between the fallen soul and its reason, at once lose their\ndarkness and their terror.\n\n\n\n\nThe Hypochondriac.[4]\n\n\n\n  He would not taste, but swallowed life at once;\n  And scarce had reached his prime ere he had bolted,\n  With all its garnish, mixed of sweet and sour,\n  Full fourscore years. For he, in truth, did wot not\n  What most he craved, and so devoured all;\n  Then, with his gases, followed Indigestion,\n  Making it food for night-mares and their foals.\n\n  _Bridgen_.[5]\n\n\nIt was the opinion of an ancient philosopher, that we can have no want\nfor which Nature does not provide an appropriate gratification. As it\nregards our physical wants, this appears to be true. But there are\nmoral cravings which extend beyond the world we live in; and, were we\nin a heathen age, would serve us with an unanswerable argument for the\nimmortality of the soul. That these cravings are felt by all, there\ncan be no doubt; yet that all feel them in the same degree would be as\nabsurd to suppose, as that every man possesses equal sensibility or\nunderstanding. Boswell's desires, from his own account, seem to have\nbeen limited to reading Shakspeare in the other world,--whether with\nor without his commentators, he has left us to guess; and Newton\nprobably pined for the sight of those distant stars whose light has\nnot yet reached us. What originally was the particular craving of my\nown mind I cannot now recall; but that I had, even in my boyish days,\nan insatiable desire after something which always eluded me, I well\nremember. As I grew into manhood, my desires became less definite; and\nby the time I had passed through college, they seemed to have resolved\nthemselves into a general passion for _doing_.\n\nIt is needless to enumerate the different subjects which one after\nanother engaged me. Mathematics, metaphysics, natural and moral\nphilosophy, were each begun, and each in turn given up in a passion of\nlove and disgust.\n\nIt is the fate of all inordinate passions to meet their extremes;\nso was it with mine. Could I have pursued any of these studies with\nmoderation, I might have been to this day, perhaps, both learned and\nhappy. But I could be moderate in nothing. Not content with being\nemployed, I must always be _busy_; and business, as every one\nknows, if long continued, must end in fatigue, and fatigue in disgust,\nand disgust in change, if that be practicable,--which unfortunately\nwas my case.\n\nThe restlessness occasioned by these half-finished studies brought\non a severe fit of self-examination. Why is it, I asked myself, that\nthese learned works, which have each furnished their authors with\nsufficient excitement to effect their completion, should thus weary me\nbefore I get midway into them? It is plain enough. As a reader I\nam merely a recipient, but the composer is an active agent; a vast\ndifference! And now I can account for the singular pleasure, which\na certain bad poet of my acquaintance always took in inflicting his\nverses on every one who would listen to him; each perusal being but a\nsort of mental echo of the original bliss of composition. I will set\nabout writing immediately.\n\nHaving, time out of mind, heard the epithet _great_ coupled with\nHistorians, it was that, I believe, inclined me to write a history.\nI chose my subject, and began collating, and transcribing, night and\nday, as if I had not another hour to live; and on I went with the\nindustry of a steam-engine; when it one day occurred to me, that,\nthough I had been laboring for months, I had not yet had occasion for\none original thought. Pshaw! said I, 't is only making new clothes out\nof old ones. I will have nothing more to do with history.\n\nAs it is natural for a mind suddenly disgusted with mechanic toil to\nseek relief from its opposite, it can easily be imagined that my next\nresource was Poetry. Every one rhymes now-a-days, and so can I. Shall\nI write an Epic, or a Tragedy, or a Metrical Romance? Epics are out of\nfashion; even Homer and Virgil would hardly be read in our time, but\nthat people are unwilling to admit their schooling to have been thrown\naway. As to Tragedy, I am a modern, and it is a settled thing that no\nmodern _can_ write a tragedy; so I must not attempt that. Then\nfor Metrical Romances,--why, they are now manufactured; and, as the\nEdinburgh Review says, may be \"imported\" by us \"in bales.\" I will bind\nmyself to no particular class, but give free play to my imagination.\nWith this resolution I went to bed, as one going to be inspired. The\nmorning came; I ate my breakfast, threw up the window, and placed\nmyself in my elbow-chair before it. An hour passed, and nothing\noccurred to me. But this I ascribed to a fit of laughter that seized\nme, at seeing a duck made drunk by eating rum-cherries. I turned my\nback on the window. Another hour followed, then another, and another:\nI was still as far from poetry as ever; every object about me seemed\nbent against my abstraction; the card-racks fascinating me like\nserpents, and compelling me to read, as if I would get them by heart,\n\"Dr. Joblin,\" \"Mr. Cumberback,\" \"Mr. Milton Bull,\" &c. &c. I took up\nmy pen, drew a sheet of paper from my writing-desk, and fixed my eyes\nupon that;--'t was all in vain; I saw nothing on it but the watermark,\n_D. Ames_. I laid down the pen, closed my eyes, and threw my\nhead back in the chair. \"Are you waiting to be shaved, Sir?\" said\na familiar voice. I started up, and overturned my servant. \"No,\nblockhead!\"--\"I am waiting to be inspired\";--but this I added\nmentally. What is the cause of my difficulty? said I. Something within\nme seemed to reply, in the words of Lear, \"Nothing comes of nothing.\"\nThen I must seek a subject. I ran over a dozen in a few minutes, chose\none after another, and, though twenty thoughts very readily occurred\non each, I was fain to reject them all; some for wanting pith, some\nfor belonging to prose, and others for having been worn out in the\nservice of other poets. In a word, my eyes began to open on the truth,\nand I felt convinced that _that_ only was poetry which a man\nwrites because he cannot help writing; the irrepressible effluence\nof his secret being on every thing in sympathy with it,--a kind of\n_flowering_ of the soul amid the warmth and the light of nature.\nI am no poet, I exclaimed, and I will not disfigure Mr. Ames with\ncommonplace verses.\n\nI know not how I should have borne this second disappointment, had not\nthe title of a new Novel, which then came into my head, suggested a\ntrial in that branch of letters. I will write a Novel. Having come to\nthis determination, the next thing was to collect materials. They must\nbe sought after, said I, for my late experiment has satisfied me that\nI might wait for ever in my elbow-chair, and they would never come to\nme; they must be toiled for,--not in books, if I would not deal in\nsecond-hand,--but in the world, that inexhaustible storehouse of\nall kinds of originals. I then turned over in my mind the various\ncharacters I had met with in life; amongst these a few only seemed\nfitted for any story, and those rather as accessories; such as a\npolitician who hated popularity, a sentimental grave-digger, and a\nmetaphysical rope-dancer; but for a hero, the grand nucleus of my\nfable, I was sorely at a loss. This, however, did not discourage me. I\nknew he might be found in the world, if I would only take the trouble\nto look for him. For this purpose I jumped into the first stage-coach\nthat passed my door; it was immaterial whither bound, my object being\nmen, not places. My first day's journey offered nothing better than a\nsailor who rebuked a member of Congress for swearing. But at the third\nstage, on the second day, as we were changing horses, I had the good\nfortune to light on a face which gave promise of all I wanted. It was\nso remarkable that I could not take my eyes from it; the forehead\nmight have been called handsome but for a pair of enormous eyebrows,\nthat seemed to project from it like the quarter-galleries of a ship,\nand beneath these were a couple of small, restless, gray eyes, which,\nglancing in every direction from under their shaggy brows, sparkled\nlike the intermittent light of fire-flies; in the nose there was\nnothing remarkable, except that it was crested by a huge wart with a\nsmall grove of black hairs; but the mouth made ample amends, being\naltogether indescribable, for it was so variable in its expression,\nthat I could not tell whether it had most of the sardonic, the\nbenevolent, or the sanguinary, appearing to exhibit them all in\nsuccession with equal vividness. My attention, however, was mainly\nfixed by the sanguinary; it came across me like an east wind, and\nI felt a cold sweat damping my linen; and when this was suddenly\nsucceeded by the benevolent, I was sure I had got at the secret of\nhis character,--no less than that of a murderer haunted by remorse.\nDelighted with this discovery, I made up my mind to follow the owner\nof the face wherever he went, till I should learn his history. I\naccordingly made an end of my journey for the present, upon learning\nthat the stranger was to pass some time in the place where we stopped.\nFor three days I made minute inquiries; but all I could gather was,\nthat he had been a great traveller, though of what country no one\ncould tell me. On the fourth day, finding him on the move, I took\npassage in the same coach. Now, said I, is my time of harvest. But I\nwas mistaken; for, in spite of all the lures which I threw out to\ndraw him into a communicative humor, I could get nothing from him but\nmonosyllables. So far from abating my ardor, this reserve only the\nmore whetted my curiosity. At last we stopped at a pleasant village\nin New Jersey. Here he seemed a little better known; the innkeeper\ninquiring after his health, and the hostler asking if the balls he\nhad supplied him with fitted the barrels of his pistols. The latter\ninquiry I thought was accompanied by a significant glance, that\nindicated a knowledge on the hostler's part of more than met the ear;\nI determined therefore to sound him. After a few general remarks, that\nhad nothing to do with any thing, by way of introduction, I began by\nhinting some random surmises as to the use to which the stranger might\nhave put the pistols he spoke of; inquired whether he was in the habit\nof loading them at night; whether he slept with them under his pillow;\nif he was in the practice of burning a light while he slept; and if\nhe did not sometimes awake the family by groans, or by walking with\nagitated steps in his chamber. But it was all in vain, the man\nprotesting that he never knew any thing ill of him. Perhaps, thought\nI, the hostler having overheard his midnight wanderings, and detected\nhis crime, is paid for keeping the secret. I pumped the landlord, and\nthe landlady, and the barmaid, and the chambermaid, and the waiters,\nand the cook, and every thing that could speak in the house; still to\nno purpose, each ending his reply with, \"Lord, Sir, he's as honest a\ngentleman, for aught I know, as any in the world\"; then would come a\nquestion,--\"But perhaps _you_ know something of him yourself?\"\nWhether my answer, though given in the negative, was uttered in such a\ntone as to imply an affirmative, thereby exciting suspicion, I cannot\ntell; but it is certain that I soon after perceived a visible change\ntowards him in the deportment of the whole household. When he spoke to\nthe waiters, their jaws fell, their fingers spread, their eyes rolled,\nwith every symptom of involuntary action; and once, when he asked the\nlandlady to take a glass of wine with him, I saw her, under pretence\nof looking out of the window, throw it into the street; in short, the\nvery scullion fled at his approach, and a chambermaid dared not\nenter his room unless under guard of a large mastiff. That these\ncircumstances were not unobserved by him will appear by what follows.\n\nThough I had come no nearer to facts, this general suspicion, added to\nthe remarkable circumstance that no one had ever heard his name (being\nknown only as _the gentleman_) gave every day new life to my\nhopes. He is the very man, said I; and I began to revel in all the\nluxury of detection, when, as I was one night undressing for bed, my\nattention was caught by the following letter on my table.\n\n    \"SIR,\n\n    \"If you are the gentleman you would be thought, you will not\n    refuse satisfaction for the diabolical calumnies you have so\n    unprovokedly circulated against an innocent man.\n\n    \"Your obedient servant,\n\n    \"TIMOLEON BUB.\n\n    \"P.S. I shall expect you at five o'clock to-morrow morning, at the\n    three elms, by the river-side.\"\n\nThis invitation, as may be well imagined, discomposed me not a\nlittle. Who Mr. Bub was, or in what way I had injured him, puzzled\nme exceedingly. Perhaps, thought I, he has mistaken me for another\nperson; if so, my appearing on the ground will soon set matters right.\nWith this persuasion I went to bed, somewhat calmer than I should\notherwise have been; nay, I was even composed enough to divert myself\nwith the folly of one bearing so vulgar an appellation taking it into\nhis head to play the _man of honor_, and could not help a waggish\nfeeling of curiosity to see if his name and person were in keeping.\n\nI woke myself in the morning with a loud laugh, for I had dreamt of\nmeeting, in the redoubtable Mr. Bub, a little pot-bellied man, with a\nround face, a red snub-nose, and a pair of gooseberry wall-eyes. My\nfit of pleasantry was far from passed off when I came in sight of the\nfatal elms. I saw my antagonist pacing the ground with considerable\nviolence. Ah! said I, he is trying to escape from his unheroic name!\nand I laughed again at the conceit; but, as I drew a little nearer,\nthere appeared a majestic altitude in his figure very unlike what I\nhad seen in my dream, and my laugh began to stiffen into a kind of\nrigid grin. There now came upon me something very like a misgiving\nthat the affair might turn out to be no joke. I felt an unaccountable\nwish that this Mr. Bub had never been born; still I advanced: but\nif an a\u00ebrolite had fallen at my feet, I could not have been more\nstartled, than when I found in the person of my challenger--the\nmysterious stranger. The consequences of my curiosity immediately\nrushed upon me, and I was no longer at a loss in what way I had\ninjured him. All my merriment seemed to curdle within me; and I felt\nlike a dog that had got his head into a jug, and suddenly finds he\ncannot extricate it. \"Well met, Sir,\" said the stranger; \"now\ntake your ground, and abide the consequences of your infernal\ninsinuations.\" \"Upon my word,\" replied I,--\"upon my honor, Sir,\"--and\nthere I stuck, for in truth I knew not what it was I was going to say;\nwhen the stranger's second, advancing, exclaimed, in a voice which\nI immediately recognized, \"Why, zounds! Rainbow, are _you_ the\nman?\" \"Is it you, Harman?\" \"What!\" continued he, \"my old classmate\nRainbow turned slanderer? Impossible! Indeed, Mr. Bub, there must be\nsome mistake here.\" \"None, Sir,\" said the stranger; \"I have it on\nthe authority of my respectable landlord, that, ever since this\ngentleman's arrival, he has been incessant in his attempts to blacken\nmy character with every person at the inn.\" \"Nay, my friend\"--But I\nput an end to Harman's further defence of me, by taking him aside,\nand frankly confessing the whole truth. It was with some difficulty I\ncould get through the explanation, being frequently interrupted with\nbursts of laughter from my auditor; which, indeed, I now began to\nthink very natural. In a word, to cut the story short, my friend\nhaving repeated the conference verbatim to Mr. Bub, he was\ngood-natured enough to join in the mirth, saying, with one of his best\nsardonics, he \"had always had a misgiving that his unlucky ugly face\nwould one day or other be the death of somebody.\" Well, we passed the\nday together, and having cracked a social bottle after dinner, parted,\nI believe, as heartily friends as we should have been (which is saying\na great deal) had he indeed proved the favorite villain in my Novel.\nBut, alas! with the loss of my villain, away went the Novel.\n\nHere again I was at a stand; and in vain did I torture my brains\nfor another pursuit. But why should I seek one? In fortune I have a\ncompetence,--why not be as independent in mind? There are thousands in\nthe world whose sole object in life is to attain the means of living\nwithout toil; and what is any literary pursuit but a series of mental\nlabor, ay, and oftentimes more wearying to the spirits than that of\nthe body. Upon the whole, I came to the conclusion, that it was a very\nfoolish thing to do any thing. So I seriously set about trying to do\nnothing.\n\nWell, what with whistling, hammering down all the nails in the house\nthat had started, paring my nails, pulling my fire to pieces and\nrebuilding it, changing my clothes to full dress though I dined alone,\ntrying to make out the figure of a Cupid on my discolored ceiling, and\nthinking of a lady I had not thought of for ten years before, I got\nalong the first week tolerably well. But by the middle of the second\nweek,--'t was horrible! the hours seemed to roll over me like\nmill-stones. When I awoke in the morning I felt like an Indian\ndevotee, the day coming upon me like the great temple of Juggernaut;\ncracking of my bones beginning after breakfast; and if I had any\nrespite, it was seldom for more than half an hour, when a newspaper\nseemed to stop the wheels;--then away they went, crack, crack, noon\nand afternoon, till I found myself by night reduced to a perfect\njelly,--good for nothing but to be ladled into bed, with a greater\nhorror than ever at the thought of sunrise.\n\nThis will never do, said I; a toad in the heart of a tree lives a more\ncomfortable life than a nothing-doing man; and I began to perceive\na very deep meaning in the truism of \"something being better than\nnothing.\" But is a precise object always necessary to the mind? No: if\nit be but occupied, no matter with what. That may easily be done.\nI have already tried the sciences, and made abortive attempts in\nliterature, but I have never yet tried what is called general\nreading;--that, thank Heaven, is a resource inexhaustible. I will\nhenceforth read only for amusement. My first experiment in this way\nwas on Voyages and Travels, with occasional dippings into Shipwrecks,\nMurders, and Ghost-stories. It succeeded beyond my hopes; month after\nmonth passing away like days, and as for days,--I almost fancied that\nI could see the sun move. How comfortable, thought I, thus to travel\nover the world in my closet! how delightful to double Cape Horn and\ncross the African Desert in my rocking-chair,--to traverse Caffraria\nand the Mogul's dominions in the same pleasant vehicle! This is living\nto some purpose; one day dining on barbecued pigs in Otaheite; the\nnext in danger of perishing amidst the snows of Terra del Fuego; then\nto have a lion cross my path in the heart of Africa; to run for my\nlife from a wounded rhinoceros, and sit, by mistake, on a sleeping\nboa-constrictor;--this, this, said I, is life! Even the dangers of the\nsea were but healthful stimulants. If I met with a tornado, it was\nonly an agreeable variety; water-spouts and ice-islands gave me no\nmanner of alarm; and I have seldom been more composed than when\ncatching a whale. In short, the ease with which I thus circumnavigated\nthe globe, and conversed with all its varieties of inhabitants,\nexpanded my benevolence; I found every place, and everybody in it,\neven to the Hottentots, vastly agreeable. But, alas! I was doomed\nto discover that this could not last for ever. Though I was still\ncurious, there were no longer curiosities; for the world is limited,\nand new countries, and new people, like every thing else, wax stale on\nacquaintance; even ghosts and hurricanes become at last familiar; and\nbooks grow old, like those who read them.\n\nI was now at what sailors call a dead lift; being too old to build\ncastles for the future, and too dissatisfied with the life I had\nled to look back on the past. In this state of mind, I bought me a\nsnuffbox; for, as I could not honestly recommend my disjointed self\nto any decent woman, it seemed a kind of duty in me to contract such\nhabits as would effectually prevent my taking in the lady I had once\nthought of. I set to, snuffing away till I made my nose sore, and\nlost my appetite. I then threw my snuffbox into the fire, and took to\ncigars. This change appeared to revive me. For a short time I thought\nmyself in Elysium, and wondered I had never tried them before. Thou\nfragrant weed! O, that I were a Dutch poet, I exclaimed, that I might\nrender due honor to thy unspeakable virtues! Ineffable tobacco! Every\npuff seemed like oil poured upon troubled waters, and I felt an\ninexpressible calmness stealing over my frame; in truth, it seemed\nlike a benevolent spirit reconciling my soul to my body. But\nmoderation, as I have before said, was never one of my virtues. I\nwalked my room, pouring out volumes like a moving glass-house. My\napartment was soon filled with smoke; I looked in the glass and hardly\nknew myself, my eyes peering at me, through the curling atmosphere,\nlike those of a poodle. I then retired to the opposite end, and\nsurveyed the furniture; nothing retained its original form or\nposition;--the tables and chairs seemed to loom from the floor, and my\ngrandfather's picture to thrust forward its nose like a French-horn,\nwhile that of my grandmother, who was reckoned a beauty in her day,\nlooked, in her hoop, like her husband's wig-block stuck on a tub.\nWhether this was a signal for the fiends within me to begin their\noperations, I know not; but from that day I began to be what is called\nnervous. The uninterrupted health I had hitherto enjoyed now seemed\nthe greatest curse that could have befallen me. I had never had the\nusual itinerant distempers; it was very unlikely that I should always\nescape them; and the dread of their coming upon me in my advanced age\nmade me perfectly miserable. I scarcely dared to stir abroad;\nhad sandbags put to my doors to keep out the measles; forbade my\nneighbours' children playing in my yard to avoid the whooping-cough;\nand, to prevent infection from the small-pox, I ordered all my male\nservants' heads to be shaved, made the coachman and footman wear tow\nwigs, and had them both regularly smoked whenever they returned from\nthe neighbouring town, before they were allowed to enter my presence.\nNor were these all my miseries; in fact, they were but a sort of\nrunning base to a thousand other strange and frightful fancies; the\nmere skeleton to a whole body-corporate of horrors. I became dreamy,\nwas haunted by what I had read, frequently finding a Hottentot, or a\nboa-constrictor, in my bed. Sometimes I fancied myself buried in one\nof the pyramids of Egypt, breaking my shins against the bones of a\nsacred cow. Then I thought myself a kangaroo, unable to move because\nsomebody had cut off my tail.\n\nIn this miserable state I one evening rushed out of my house. I know\nnot how far, or how long, I had been from home, when, hearing a\nwell-known voice, I suddenly stopped. It seemed to belong to a face\nthat I knew; yet how I should know it somewhat puzzled me, being then\nfully persuaded that I was a Chinese Josh. My friend (as I afterwards\nlearned he was) invited me to go to his club. This, thought I, is one\nof my worshippers, and they have a right to carry me wherever they\nplease; accordingly I suffered myself to be led.\n\nI soon found myself in an American tavern, and in the midst of a dozen\ngrave gentlemen who were emptying a large bowl of punch. They each\nsaluted me, some calling me by name, others saying they were happy to\nmake my acquaintance; but what appeared quite unaccountable was my not\nonly understanding their language, but knowing it to be English. A\nkind of reaction now began to take place in my brain. Perhaps, said I,\nI am not a Josh. I was urged to pledge my friend in a glass of punch;\nI did so; my friend's friend, and his friend, and all the rest, in\nsuccession, begged to have the same honor; I complied, again\nand again, till at last, the punch having fairly turned my\nhead topsy-turvy, righted my understanding; and I found myself\n_myself_.\n\nThis happy change gave a pleasant fillip to my spirits. I returned\nhome, found no monster in my bed, and slept quietly till near noon the\nnext day. I arose with a slight headache and a great admiration\nof punch; resolving, if I did not catch the measles from my late\nadventure, to make a second visit to the club. No symptoms appearing,\nI went again; and my reception was such as led to a third, and a\nfourth, and a fifth visit, when I became a regular member. I believe\nmy inducement to this was a certain unintelligible something in three\nor four of my new associates, which at once gratified and kept alive\nmy curiosity, in their letting out just enough of themselves while I\nwas with them to excite me when alone to speculate on what was kept\nback. I wondered I had never met with such characters in books; and\nthe kind of interest they awakened began gradually to widen to others.\nHenceforth I will live in the world, said I; 't is my only remedy. A\nman's own affairs are soon conned; he gets them by heart till they\nhaunt him when he would be rid of them; but those of another can\nbe known only in part, while that which remains unrevealed is a\nnever-ending stimulus to curiosity. The only natural mode, therefore,\nof preventing the mind preying on itself,--the only rational, because\nthe only interminable employment,--is to be busy about other people's\nbusiness.\n\nThe variety of objects which this new course of life each day\npresented, brought me at length to a state of sanity; at least, I was\nno longer disposed to conjure up remote dangers to my door, or chew\nthe cud on my indigested past reading; though sometimes, I confess,\nwhen I have been tempted to meddle with a very bad character, I have\ninvariably been threatened with a relapse; which leads me to think the\nexistence of some secret affinity between rogues and boa-constrictors\nis not unlikely. In a short time, however, I had every reason to\nbelieve myself completely cured; for the days began to appear of their\nnatural length, and I no longer saw every thing through a pair of\nblue spectacles, but found nature diversified by a thousand beautiful\ncolors, and the people about me a thousand times more interesting than\nhyenas or Hottentots. The world is now my only study, and I trust I\nshall stick to it for the sake of my health.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes\n\n\n\n[1] The Frightful is not the Terrible, though often confounded with it.\n\n[2] See Introductory Discourse.\n\n[3] There is one species of imitation, however, which, as having been\npractised by some of the most original minds, and also sanctioned by the\nablest writers, demands at least a little consideration; namely, the\nadoption of an attitude, provided it be employed to convey a different\nthought. So far, indeed, as the imitation has been confined to a\nsuggestion, and the attitude adopted has been modified by the new subject,\nto which it was transferred, by a distinct change of character and\nexpression, though with but little variation in the disposition of limbs,\nwe may not dissent; such imitations being virtually little more than\nhints, since they end in thoughts either totally different from, or more\ncomplete than, the first. This we do not condemn, for every Poet, as well\nas Artist, knows that a thought so modified is of right his own. It is the\ntransplanting of a tree, not the borrowing of a seed, against which we\ncontend. But when writers justify the appropriation, of entire figures,\nwithout any such change, we do not agree with them; and cannot but think\nthat the examples they have quoted, as in the Sacrifice at Lystra, by\nRaffaelle, and the Baptism, by Poussin, will fully support our position.\nThe antique _basso rilievo_ which Raffaelle has introduced in the former,\nbeing certainly imitated both as to lines and grouping, is so distinct,\nboth in character and form, from the surrounding figures, as to render\nthem a distinct people, and their very air reminds us of another age. We\ncannot but believe we should have had a very different group, and far\nsuperior in expression, had he given us a conception of his own. It would\nat least have been in accordance with the rest, animated with the\nsuperstitious enthusiasm of the surrounding crowd; and especially as\nsacrificing Priests would they have been amazed and awe-stricken in the\nliving presence of a god, instead of personating, as in the present group,\nthe cold officials of the Temple, going through a stated task at the\nshrine of their idol. In the figure by Poussin, which he borrowed from\nMichael Angelo, the discrepancy is still greater. The original figure,\nwhich was in the Cartoon at Pisa, (now known only by a print,) is that of\na warrior who has been suddenly roused from the act of bathing by the\nsound of a trumpet; he has just leaped upon the bank, and, in his haste to\nobey its summons, thrusts his foot through his garment. Nothing could be\nmore appropriate than the violence of this action; it is in unison with\nthe hurry and bustle of the occasion. And this is the figure which Poussin\n(without the slightest change, if we recollect aright) has transferred to\nthe still and solemn scene in which John baptizes the Saviour. No one can\nlook at this figure without suspecting the plagiarism. Similar instances\nmay be found in his other works; as in the Plague of the Philistines,\nwhere the Alcibiades of Raffaelle is coolly sauntering among the dead and\ndying, and with as little relation to the infected multitude as if he were\nstill with Socrates in the School of Athens. In the same picture may be\nfound also one of the Apostles from the Cartoon of the Draught of Fishes:\nand we may naturally ask what business he has there. And yet such\nappropriations have been made to appear no thefts, simply because no\nattempt seems to have been made at concealment! But theft, we must be\nallowed to think, is still theft, whether committed in the dark, or in the\nface of day. And the example is a dangerous one, inasmuch as it comes from\nmen who were not constrained to resort to such shifts by any poverty of\ninvention.\n\nAkin to this is another and larger kind of borrowing, which, though it\ncannot strictly be called copying; yet so evidently betrays a foreign\norigin, as to produce the same effect. We allude to the adoption of the\npeculiar lines, handling, and disposition of masses, &c., of any\nparticular master.\n\n[4] First printed in 1821, in \"The Idle Man,\" No. II p. 38.\n\n[5] A feigned name.--_Editor_.","title":"Lectures on Art","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":59303}