melody is sweeter than he knows, or like a traveller, surprised by a
mountain echo, whose trivial word returns to him in romantic thunders.
In view of these facts, I say that the power of Nature predominates
over the human will in all works of even the fine arts, in all that
respects their material and external circumstances. Nature paints the
best part of the picture; carves the best part of the statue; builds
the best part of the house; and speaks the best part of the oration.
For all the advantages to which I have adverted are such as the artist
did not consciously produce. He relied on their aid, he put himself in
the way to receive aid from some of them; but he saw that his planting
and his watering waited for the sunlight of Nature, or were vain.
Let us proceed to the consideration of the law stated in the beginning
of this essay, as it affects the purely spiritual part of a work of art.
As, in useful art, so far as it is useful, the work must be strictly
subordinated to the laws of Nature, so as to become a sort of
continuation, and in nowise a contradiction of Nature; so, in art that
aims at beauty, must the parts be subordinated to Ideal Nature, and
everything individual abstracted, so that it shall be the production of
the universal soul.
The artist who is to produce a work which is to be admired, not by his
friends or his townspeople or his contemporaries, but by all men, and
which is to be more beautiful to the eye in proportion to its culture,
must disindividualize himself, and be a man of no party, and no manner,
and no age, but one through whom the soul of all men circulates, as the
common air through his lungs. He must work in the spirit in which we
conceive a prophet to speak, or an angel of the Lord to act; that is,
he is not to speak his own words, or do his own works, or think his own
thoughts, but he is to be an organ through which the universal mind
acts.
In speaking of the useful arts, I pointed to the fact that we do not
dig, or grind, or hew, by our muscular strength, but by bringing the
weight of the planet to bear on the spade, axe, or bar. Precisely
analogous to this, in the fine arts, is the manner of our intellectual
work. We aim to hinder our individuality from acting. So much as we
can shove aside our egotism, our prejudice, and will, and bring the
omniscience of reason upon the subject before us, so perfect is the
work. The wonders of Shakspeare are things which he saw whilst he stood
aside, and then returned to record them. The poet aims at getting
observations without aim; to subject to thought things seen without
(voluntary) thought.
In eloquence, the great triumphs of the art are, when the orator is
lifted above himself; when consciously he makes himself the mere tongue
of the occasion and the hour, and says what cannot but be said. Hence
the term _abandonment_, to describe the self-surrender of the orator.
Not his will, but the principle on which he is horsed, the great
connection and crisis of events, thunder in the ear of the crowd.
In poetry, where every word is free, every word is necessary. Good
poetry could not have been otherwise written than it is. The first time
you hear it, it sounds rather as if copied out of some invisible tablet
in the Eternal mind, than as if arbitrarily composed by the poet. The
feeling of all great poets has accorded with this. They found the
verse, not made it. The muse brought it to them.
In sculpture, did ever anybody call the Apollo a fancy piece? Or say of
the Laocoön how it might be made different? A masterpiece of art has in
the mind a fixed place in the chain of being, as much as a plant or a
crystal.
The whole language of men, especially of artists, in reference to this
subject, points at the belief that every work of art, in proportion to
its excellence, partakes of the precision of fate: no room was there
for choice, no play for fancy; for in the moment, or in the successive
moments, when that form was seen, the iron lids of Reason were
unclosed, which ordinarily are heavy with slumber. The individual mind
became for the moment the vent of the mind of humanity.
There is but one Reason. The mind that made the world is not one mind,
but _the_ mind. Every man is an inlet to the same, and to all of the
same. And every work of art is a more or less pure manifestation of
the same. Therefore we arrive at this conclusion, which I offer as a
confirmation of the whole view, that the delight which a work of art
affords, seems to arise from our recognizing in it the mind that formed
Nature, again in active operation.
It differs from the works of Nature in this, that they are organically
reproductive. This is not; but spiritually it is prolific by its
powerful action on the intellects of men.
Hence it follows that a study of admirable works of art sharpens our
perceptions of the beauty of Nature; that a certain analogy reigns
throughout the wonders of both; that the contemplation of a work of
great art draws us into a state of mind which may be called religious.
It conspires with all exalted sentiments.
Proceeding from absolute mind, whose nature is goodness as much as
truth, the great works are always attuned to moral nature. If the earth
and sea conspire with virtue more than vice,--so do the masterpieces
of art. The galleries of ancient sculpture in Naples and Rome strike
no deeper conviction into the mind than the contrast of the purity,
the severity, expressed in these fine old heads, with the frivolity
and grossness of the mob that exhibits and the mob that gazes at them.
These are the countenances of the first-born,--the face of man in the
morning of the world. No mark is on these lofty features, of sloth, or
luxury, or meanness, and they surprise you with a moral admonition,
as they speak of nothing around you, but remind you of the fragrant
thoughts and the purest resolutions of your youth.
Herein is the explanation of the analogies which exist in all the arts.
They are the reappearance of one mind, working in many materials to
many temporary ends. Raphael paints wisdom; Handel sings it, Phidias
carves it, Shakspeare writes it, Wren builds it, Columbus sails it,
Luther preaches it, Washington arms it, Watt mechanizes it. Painting
was called “silent poetry”; and poetry, “speaking painting.” The laws
of each art are convertible into the laws of every other.
Herein we have an explanation of the necessity that reigns in all the
kingdom of Art.
Arising out of eternal Reason, one and perfect, whatever is beautiful
rests on the foundation of the necessary. Nothing is arbitrary, nothing
is insulated in beauty. It depends forever on the necessary and the
useful. The plumage of the bird, the mimic plumage of the insect, has a
reason for its rich colors in the constitution of the animal. Fitness
is so inseparable an accompaniment of beauty, that it has been taken
for it. The most perfect form to answer an end is so far beautiful.
We feel, in seeing a noble building, which rhymes well, as we do in
hearing a perfect song, that it is spiritually organic; that is, had a
necessity, in nature, for being, was one of the possible forms in the
Divine mind, and is now only discovered and executed by the artist, not
arbitrarily composed by him.
And so every genuine work of art has as much reason for being as the
earth and the sun. The gayest charm of beauty has a root in the
constitution of things. The Iliad of Homer, the songs of David, the
odes of Pindar, the tragedies of Æschylus, the Doric temples, the
Gothic cathedrals, the plays of Shakspeare, all and each were made not
for sport, but in grave earnest, in tears and smiles of suffering and
loving men.
Viewed from this point, the history of Art becomes intelligible, and,
moreover, one of the most agreeable studies. We see how each work of
art sprang irresistibly from necessity, and, moreover, took its form
from the broad hint of Nature. Beautiful in this wise is the obvious
origin of all the known orders of architecture; namely, that they
were the idealizing of the primitive abodes of each people. There
was no wilfulness in the savages in this perpetuating of their first
rude abodes. The first form in which they built a house would be the
first form of their public and religious edifice also. This form
becomes immediately sacred in the eyes of their children, and, as more
traditions cluster round it, is imitated with more splendor in each
succeeding generation.
In like manner, it has been remarked by Goethe that the granite
breaks into parallelepipeds, which broken in two, one part would
be an obelisk; that in Upper Egypt the inhabitants would naturally
mark a memorable spot by setting up so conspicuous a stone. Again,
he suggested, we may see in any stone wall, on a fragment of rock,
the projecting veins of harder stone, which have resisted the action
of frost and water which has decomposed the rest. This appearance
certainly gave the hint of the hieroglyphics inscribed on their
obelisk. The amphitheatre of the old Romans,--any one may see its
origin who looks at the crowd running together to see any fight,
sickness, or odd appearance in the street. The first comers gather
round in a circle; those behind stand on tiptoe; and farther back they
climb on fences or window-sills, and so make a cup of which the object
of attention occupies the hollow area. The architect put benches in
this, and enclosed the cup with a wall,--and, behold a coliseum!
It would be easy to show of many fine things in the world,--in the
customs of nations, the etiquette of courts, the constitution of
governments,--the origin in quite simple local necessities. Heraldry,
for example, and the ceremonies of a coronation, are a dignified
repetition of the occurrences that might befall a dragoon and his
footboy. The College of Cardinals were originally the parish priests
of Rome. The leaning towers originated from the civil discords which
induced every lord to build a tower. Then it became a point of family
pride,--and for more pride the novelty of a leaning tower was built.
This strict dependence of Art upon material and ideal Nature, this
adamantine necessity which underlies it, has made all its past, and
may foreshow its future history. It never was in the power of any man,
or any community, to call the arts into being. They come to serve his
actual wants, never to please his fancy. These arts have their origin
always in some enthusiasm, as love, patriotism, or religion. Who carved
marble? The believing man, who wished to symbolize their gods to the
waiting Greeks.
The Gothic cathedrals were built when the builder and the priest and
the people were overpowered by their faith. Love and fear laid every
stone. The Madonnas of Raphael and Titian were made to be worshipped.
Tragedy was instituted for the like purpose, and the miracles of
music: all sprang out of some genuine enthusiasm, and never out of
dilettanteism and holidays. Now they languish, because their purpose
is merely exhibition. Who cares, who knows what works of art our
government have ordered to be made for the Capitol? They are a mere
flourish to please the eye of persons who have associations with
books and galleries. But in Greece, the Demos of Athens divided into
political factions upon the merits of Phidias.
In this country, at this time, other interests than religion and
patriotism are predominant, and the arts, the daughters of enthusiasm,
do not flourish. The genuine offspring of our ruling passions we
behold. Popular institutions, the school, the reading-room, the
telegraph, the post-office, the exchange, the insurance-company, and
the immense harvest of economical inventions, are the fruit of the
equality and the boundless liberty of lucrative callings. These are
superficial wants; and their fruits are these superficial institutions.
But as far as they accelerate the end of political freedom and
national education, they are preparing the soil of man for fairer
flowers and fruits in another age. For beauty, truth, and goodness
are not obsolete; they spring eternal in the breast of man; they are
as indigenous in Massachusetts as in Tuscany or the Isles of Greece.
And that Eternal Spirit, whose triple face they are, moulds from them
forever, for his mortal child, images to remind him of the Infinite and
Fair.
ELOQUENCE.
ELOQUENCE.
It is the doctrine of the popular music-masters, that whoever can
speak can sing. So, probably, every man is eloquent once in his life.
Our temperaments differ in capacity of heat, or, we boil at different
degrees. One man is brought to the boiling-point by the excitement of
conversation in the parlor. The waters, of course, are not very deep.
He has a two-inch enthusiasm, a patty-pan ebullition. Another requires
the additional caloric of a multitude, and a public debate; a third
needs an antagonist, or a hot indignation; a fourth needs a revolution;
and a fifth, nothing less than the grandeur of absolute ideas, the
splendors and shades of Heaven and Hell.
But because every man is an orator, how long soever he may have been
a mute, an assembly of men is so much more susceptible. The eloquence
of one stimulates all the rest, some up to the speaking-point, and
all others to a degree that makes them good receivers and conductors,
and they avenge themselves for their enforced silence by increased
loquacity on their return to the fireside.
The plight of these phlegmatic brains is better than that of those
who prematurely boil, and who impatiently break silence before their
time. Our county conventions often exhibit a small-pot-soon-hot style
of eloquence. We are too much reminded of a medical experiment where a
series of patients are taking nitrous-oxide gas. Each patient, in turn,
exhibits similar symptoms,--redness in the face, volubility, violent
gesticulation, delirious attitudes, occasional stamping, an alarming
loss of perception of the passage of time, a selfish enjoyment of his
sensations, and loss of perception of the sufferings of the audience.
Plato says, that the punishment which the wise suffer, who refuse to
take part in the government, is, to live under the government of worse
men; and the like regret is suggested to all the auditors, as the
penalty of abstaining to speak,--that they shall hear worse orators
than themselves.
But this lust to speak marks the universal feeling of the energy of
the engine, and the curiosity men feel to touch the springs. Of all
the musical instruments on which men play, a popular assembly is
that which has the largest compass and variety, and out of which,
by genius and study, the most wonderful effects can be drawn. An
audience is not a simple addition of the individuals that compose it.
Their sympathy gives them a certain social organism, which fills each
member, in his own degree, and most of all the orator, as a jar in a
battery is charged with the whole electricity of the battery. No one
can survey the face of an excited assembly, without being apprised
of new opportunity for painting in fire human thought, and being
agitated to agitate. How many orators sit mute there below! They come
to get justice done to that ear and intuition which no Chatham and no
Demosthenes has begun to satisfy.
The Welsh Triads say, “Many are the friends of the golden tongue.”
Who can wonder at the attractiveness of Parliament, or of Congress,
or the bar, for our ambitious young men, when the highest bribes of
society are at the feet of the successful orator? He has his audience
at his devotion. All other fames must hush before his. He is the
true potentate; for they are not kings who sit on thrones, but they
who know how to govern. The definitions of eloquence describe its
attraction for young men. Antiphon the Rhamnusian, one of Plutarch’s
ten orators, advertised in Athens, “that he would cure distempers of
the mind with words.” No man has a prosperity so high or firm but two
or three words can dishearten it. There is no calamity which right
words will not begin to redress. Isocrates described his art as “the
power of magnifying what was small and diminishing what was great,”--an
acute but partial definition. Among the Spartans, the art assumed a
Spartan shape, namely, of the sharpest weapon. Socrates says: “If
any one wishes to converse with the meanest of the Lacedæmonians, he
will at first find him despicable in conversation; but, when a proper
opportunity offers, this same person, like a skilful jaculator, will
hurl a sentence worthy of attention, short and contorted, so that he
who converses with him will appear to be in no respect superior to a
boy.” Plato’s definition of rhetoric is, “the art of ruling the minds
of men.” The Koran says, “A mountain may change its place, but a man
will not change his disposition” yet the end of eloquence is,--is it
not?--to alter in a pair of hours, perhaps in a half-hour’s discourse,
the convictions and habits of years. Young men, too, are eager to enjoy
this sense of added power and enlarged sympathetic existence. The
orator sees himself the organ of a multitude, and concentrating their
valors and powers:
“But now the blood of twenty thousand men
Blushed in my face.”
That which he wishes, that which eloquence ought to reach, is, not a
particular skill in telling a story, or neatly summing up evidence,
or arguing logically, or dexterously addressing the prejudice of the
company,--no, but a taking sovereign possession of the audience. Him
we call an artist, who shall play on an assembly of men as a master on
the keys of the piano,--who, seeing the people furious, shall soften
and compose them, shall draw them, when he will, to laughter and to
tears. Bring him to his audience, and, be they who they may,--coarse or
refined, pleased or displeased, sulky or savage, with their opinions
in the keeping of a confessor, or with their opinions in their
bank-safes,--he will have them pleased and humored as he chooses; and
they shall carry and execute that which he bids them.
This is that despotism which poets have celebrated in the “Pied Piper
of Hamelin,” whose music drew like the power of gravitation,--drew
soldiers and priests, traders and feasters, women and boys, rats and
mice; or that of the minstrel of Meudon, who made the pall-bearers
dance around the bier. This is a power of many degrees, and requiring
in the orator a great range of faculty and experience, requiring a
large composite man, such as Nature rarely organizes; so that, in our
experience, we are forced to gather up the figure in fragments, here
one talent, and there another.
The audience is a constant metre of the orator. There are many
audiences in every public assembly, each one of which rules in turn.
If anything comic and coarse is spoken, you shall see the emergence
of the boys and rowdies, so loud and vivacious that you might think
the house was filled with them. If new topics are started, graver and
higher, these roisters recede; a more chaste and wise attention takes
place. You would think the boys slept, and that the men have any degree
of profoundness. If the speaker utter a noble sentiment, the attention
deepens, a new and highest audience now listens, and the audiences
of the fun and of facts and of the understanding are all silenced
and awed. There is also something excellent in every audience,--the
capacity of virtue. They are ready to be beatified. They know so much
more than the orator,--and are so just! There is a tablet there for
every line he can inscribe, though he should mount to the highest
levels. Humble persons are conscious of new illumination; narrow brows
expand with enlarged affections;--delicate spirits, long unknown to
themselves, masked and muffled in coarsest fortunes, who now hear their
own native language for the first time, and leap to hear it. But all
these several audiences, each above each, which successively appear to
greet the variety of style and topic, are really composed out of the
same persons; nay, sometimes the same individual will take active part
in them all, in turn.
This range of many powers in the consummate speaker, and of many
audiences in one assembly, leads us to consider the successive stages
of oratory.
Perhaps it is the lowest of the qualities of an orator, but it is, on
so many occasions, of chief importance,--a certain robust and radiant
physical health; or,--shall I say?--great volumes of animal heat. When
each auditor feels himself to make too large a part of the assembly,
and shudders with cold at the thinness of the morning audience, and
with fear lest all will heavily fail through one bad speech, mere
energy and mellowness are then inestimable. Wisdom and learning would
be harsh and unwelcome, compared with a substantial cordial man, made
of milk, as we say, who is a house-warmer, with his obvious honesty
and good meaning, and a hue-and-cry style of harangue, which inundates
the assembly with a flood of animal spirits, and makes all safe and
secure, so that any and every sort of good speaking becomes at once
practicable. I do not rate this animal eloquence very highly; and yet,
as we must be fed and warmed before we can do any work well,--even the
best,--so is this semi-animal exuberance, like a good stove, of the
first necessity in a cold house.
Climate has much to do with it,--climate and race. Set a New-Englander
to describe any accident which happened in his presence. What
hesitation and reserve in his narrative! He tells with difficulty some
particulars, and gets as fast as he can to the result, and, though he
cannot describe, hopes to suggest the whole scene. Now listen to a
poor Irishwoman recounting some experience of hers. Her speech flows
like a river,--so unconsidered, so humorous, so pathetic, such justice
done to all the parts! It is a true transubstantiation,--the fact
converted into speech, all warm and colored and alive, as it fell out.
Our Southern people are almost all speakers, and have every advantage
over the New England people, whose climate is so cold that, ’tis said,
we do not like to open our mouths very wide. But neither can the
Southerner in the United States, nor the Irish, compare with the lively
inhabitant of the south of Europe. The traveller in Sicily needs no
gayer melodramatic exhibition than the _table d’hôte_ of his inn will
afford him in the conversation of the joyous guests. They mimic the
voice and manner of the person they describe; they crow, squeal, hiss,
cackle, bark, and scream like mad, and, were it only by the physical
strength exerted in telling the story, keep the table in unbounded
excitement. But in every constitution some large degree of animal vigor
is necessary as material foundation for the higher qualities of the art.