THE PRINCIPLES OF SUCCESS IN LITERATURE
by
George Henry Lewes
This eBook was prepared by Roland Cheney.
In the development of the great series of animal organisms, the Nervous
System assumes more and more of an imperial character. The rank held by
any animal is determined by this character, and not at all by its bulk,
its strength, or even its utility. In like manner, in the development
of the social organism, as the life of nations becomes more complex,
Thought assumes a more imperial character; and Literature, in its
widest sense, becomes a delicate index of social evolution. Barbarous
societies show only the germs of literary life. But advancing
civilisation, bringing with it increased conquest over material
agencies, disengages the mind from the pressure of immediate wants, and
the loosened energy finds in leisure both the demand and the means of a
new activity: the demand, because long unoccupied hours have to be
rescued from the weariness of inaction; the means, because this call
upon the energies nourishes a greater ambition and furnishes a wider
arena.
Literature is at once the cause and the effect of social progress. It
deepens our natural sensibilities, and strengthens by exercise our
intellectual capacities. It stores up the accumulated experience of the
race, connecting Past and Present into a conscious unity; and with this
store it feeds successive generations, to be fed in turn by them. As
its importance emerges into more general recognition, it necessarily
draws after it a larger crowd of servitors, filling noble minds with a
noble ambition.
There is no need in our day to be dithyrambic on the glory of
Literature. Books have become our dearest companions, yielding
exquisite delights and inspiring lofty aims. They are our silent
instructors, our solace in sorrow, our relief in weariness. With what
enjoyment we linger over the pages of some well-loved author! With
what gratitude we regard every honest book! Friendships, prefound and
generous, are formed with men long dead, and with men whom we may never
see. The lives of these men have a quite personal interest for us.
Their homes become as consecrated shrines. Their little ways and
familiar phrases become endeared to us, like the little ways and
phrases of our wives and children.
It is natural that numbers who have once been thrilled with this
delight should in turn aspire to the privilege of exciting it. Success
in Literature has thus become not only the ambition of the highest
minds, it has also become the ambition of minds intensely occupied
with other means of influencing their fellow--with statesmen,
warriors, and rulers. Prime ministers and emperors have striven for
distinction as poets, scholars, critics, and historians. Unsatisfied
with the powers and privileges of rank, wealth, and their conspicuous
position in the eyes of men, they have longed also for the nobler
privilege of exercising a generous sway over the minds and hearts of
readers. To gain this they have stolen hours from the pressure of
affairs, and disregarded the allurements of luxurious ease, labouring
steadfastly, hoping eagerly. Nor have they mistaken the value of the
reward. Success in Literature is, in truth, the blue ribbon of
nobility.
There is another aspect presented by Literature. It has become a
profession; to many a serious and elevating profession; to many more a
mere trade, having miserable trade-aims and trade-tricks. As in every
other profession, the ranks are thronged with incompetent aspirants,
without seriousness of aim, without the faculties demanded by their
work. They are led to waste powers which in other directions might have
done honest service, because they have failed to discriminate between
aspiration and inspiration, between the desire for greatness and the
consciousness of power. Still lower in the ranks are those who follow
Literature simply because they see no other opening for their
incompetence; just as forlorn widows and ignorant old maids thrown
suddenly on their own resources open a school--no other means of
livelihood seeming to be within their reach. Lowest of all are those
whose esurient vanity, acting on a frivolous levity of mind, urges them
to make Literature a plaything for display. To write for a livelihood,
even on a complete misapprehension of our powers, is at least a
respectable impulse. To play at Literature is altogether inexcusable:
the motive is vanity, the object notoriety, the end contempt.
I propose to treat of the Principles of Success in Literature, in the
belief that if a clear recognition of the principles which underlie all
successful writing could once be gained, it would be no inconsiderable
help to many a young and thoughtful mind. Is it necessary to guard
against a misconception of my object, and to explain that I hope to
furnish nothing more than help and encouragement? There is help to be
gained from a clear understanding of the conditions of success; and
encouragement to be gained from a reliance on the ultimate victory of
true principles. More than this can hardly be expected from me, even on
the supposition that I have ascertained the real conditions. No one, it
is to be presumed, will imagine that I can have any pretension of
giving recipes for Literature, or of furnishing power and talent where
nature has withheld them. I must assume the presence of the talent, and
then assign the conditions under which that talent can alone achieve
real success, no man is made a discoverer by learning the principles of
scientific Method; but only by those principles can discoveries be
made; and if he has consciously mastered them, he will find them
directing his researches and saving him from an immensity of fruitless
labour. It is something in the nature of the Method of Literature that
I propose to expound. Success is not an accident. All Literature is
founded upon psychological laws, and involves principles which are true
for all peoples and for all times. These principles we are to consider
here.
II.
The rarity of good books in every department, and the enormous quantity
of imperfect, insincere books, has been the lament of all times. The
complaint being as old as Literature itself, we may dismiss without
notice all the accusations which throw the burden on systems of
education, conditions of society, cheap books, levity and superficialty
of readers, and analogous causes. None of these can be a VERA CAUSA;
though each may have had its special influence in determining the
production of some imperfect works. The main cause I take to be that
indicated in Goethe's aphorism: "In this world there are so few voices
and so many echoes." Books are generally more deficient in sincerity
than in cleverness. Talent, as will become apparent in the course of
our inquiry, holds a very subordinate position in Literature to that
usually assigned to it. Indeed, a cursory inspection of the Literature
of our day will detect an abundance of remarkable talent---that is, of
intellectual agility, apprehensiveness, wit, fancy, and power of
expression which is nevertheless impotent to rescue "clever writing"
from neglect or contempt. It is unreal splendour; for the most part
mere intellectual fireworks. In Life, as in Literature, our admiration
for mere cleverness has a touch of contempt in it, and is very unlike
the respect paid to character. And justly so. No talent can be
supremely effective unless it act in close alliance with certain moral
qualities. (What these qualities are will be specified hereafter.)
Another cause, intimately allied with the absence of moral guidance
just alluded to, is MISDIRECTION of talent. Valuable energy is wasted
by being misdirected. Men are constantly attempting, without special
aptitude, work for which special aptitude is indispensable.
"On peut etre honnete hornme et faire mal des vers."
A man may be variously accomplished, and yet be a feeble poet. He may
be a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist, he may have dramatic faculty,
yet be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow
thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work
it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this
seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check
a mistaken presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain
susceptibility to the graces and refinements of Literature which has
been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power;
and these men, being really destitute of native power, are forced to
imitate what others have created. They can understand how a man may
have musical sensibility and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to
understand, at least in their own case, how a man may have literary
sensibility, yet not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist.
They imagine that if they are cultivated and clever, can write what is
delusively called a "brilliant style," and are familiar with the
masterpieces of Literature, they must be more competent to succeed in
fiction or the drama than a duller man, with a plainer style and
slenderer acquaintance with the "best models." Had they distinctly
conceived the real aims of Literature this mistake would often have
been avoided. A recognition of the aims would have pressed on their
attention a more distinct appreciation of the requirements.
No one ever doubted that special aptitudes were required for music,
mathematics, drawing, or for wit; but other aptitudes not less special
are seldom recognised. It is with authors as with actors: mere delight
in the art deludes them into the belief that they could be artists.
There are born actors, as there are born authors. To an observant eye
such men reveal their native endowments. Even in conversation they
spontaneously throw themselves into the characters they speak of. They
mimic, often quite unconsciously the speech and gesture of the person.
They dramatise when they narrate. Other men with little of this
faculty, but with only so much of it as will enable them to imitate the
tones and gestures of some admired actor, are misled by their vanity
into the belief that they also are actors, that they also could move an
audience as their original moves it.
In Literature we see a few original writers, and a crowd of imitators:
men of special aptitudes, and men who mistake their power of repeating
with slight variation what others have done, for a power of creating
anew. The imitator sees that it is easy to do that which has already
been done. He intends to improve on it; to add from his own stores
something which the originator could not give; to lend it the lustre of
a richer mind; to make this situation more impressive, and that
character more natural. He is vividly impressed with the imperfections
of the original. And it is a perpetual puzzle to him why the public,
which applauds his imperfect predecessor, stupidly fails to recognise
his own obvious improvements.
It is from such men that the cry goes forth about neglected genius and
public caprice. In secret they despise many a distinguished writer, and
privately, if not publicly, assert themselves as immeasurably superior.
The success of a Dumas is to them a puzzle and an irritation. They do
not understand that a man becomes distinguished in virtue of some
special talent properly directed; and that their obscurity is due
either to the absence of a special talent, or to its misdirection. They
may probably be superior to Dumas in general culture, or various
ability; it is in particular ability that they are his inferiors. They
may be conscious of wider knowledge, a more exquisite sensibility, and
a finer taste more finely cultivated; yet they have failed to produce
any impression on the public in a direction where the despised
favourite has produced a strong impression. They are thus thrown upon
the alternative of supposing that he has had "the luck" denied to them,
or that the public taste is degraded and prefers trash. Both opinions
are serious mistakes. Both injure the mind that harbours them.
In how far is success a test of merit? Rigorously considered it is an
absolute test. Nor is such a conclusion shaken by the undeniable fact
that temporary applause is often secured by works which have no lasting
value. For we must always ask, What is the nature of the applause, and
from what circles does it rise? A work which appears at a particular
juncture, and suits the fleeting wants of the hour, flattering the
passions of the hour, may make a loud noise, and bring its author into
strong relief. This is not luck, but a certain fitness between the
author's mind and the public needs. He who first seizes the occasion,
may be for general purposes intrinsically a feebler man than many who
stand listless or hesitating till the moment be passed; but in
Literature, as in Life, a sudden promptitude outrivals vacillating
power.
Generally speaking, however, this promptitude has but rare occasions
for achieving success. We may lay it down as a rule that no work ever
succeeded, even for a day, but it deserved that success; no work ever
failed but under conditions which made failure inevltable. This will
seem hard to men who feel that in their case neglect arises from
prejudice or stupidity. Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true even
when the work once neglected has since been acknowleged superior to the
works which for a time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is
the measure of the relatlon, temporary or enduring, which exists
between a work and the public mind. The millet seed may be
intrinsically less valuable than a pearl; but the hungry cock wisely
neglected the pearl, because pearls could not, and millet seeds could,
appease his hunger. Who shall say how much of the subsequent success of
a once neglected work is due to the preparation of the public mind
through the works which for a time eclipsed it?
Let us look candidly at this matter. It interests us all; for we have
all more or less to contend against public misconception, no less than
against our own defects. The object of Literature is to instruct, to
animate, or to amuse. Any book which does one of these things
succeeds; any book which does none of these things fails. Failure is
the indication of an inability to perform what was attempted: the aim
was misdirected, or the arm was too weak: in either case the mark has
not been hit.
"The public taste is degraded." Perhaps so; and perhaps not. But in
granting a want of due preparation in the public, we only grant that
the author has missed his aim. A reader cannot be expected to be
interested in ideas which are not presented intelligibly to him, nor
delighted by art which does not touch him; and for the writer to imply
that he furnishes arguments, but does not pretend to furnish brains to
understand the arguments, is arrogance. What Goethe says about the most
legible handwriting being illegible in the twilight, is doubtless true;
and should be oftener borne in mind by frivolous objectors, who declare
they do not understand this or do not admire that, as if their want of
taste and understanding were rather creditable than otherwise, and were
decisive proofs of an author's insignificance. But this reproof, which
is telling against individuals, has no justice as against the public.
For--and this is generally lost sight of--the public is composed of the
class or classes directly addressed by any work, and not of the
heterogeneous mass of readers. Mathematicians do not write for the
circulating library. Science is not addressed to poets. Philosophy is
meant for students, not for idle readers. If the members of a class do
not understand--if those directly addressed fail to listen, or
listening, fail to recognise a power in the voice--surely the fault
lies with the speaker, who, having attempted to secure their attention
and enlighten their understandings, has failed in the attempt? The
mathematician who is without value to mathematicians, the thinker who
is obscure or meaningless to thinkers, the dramatist who fails to move
the pit, may be wise, may be eminent, but as an author he has failed.
He attempted to make his wisdom and his power operate on the minds of
others. He has missed his mark. MARGARITAS ANTE PORCOS! is the soothing
maxim of a disappointed self-love. But we, who look on, may sometimes
doubt whether they WERE pearls thus ineffectually thrown; and always
doubt the judiciousness of strewing pearls before swine. The prosperity
of a book lies in the minds of readers. Public knowledge and public
taste fluctuate; and there come times when works which were once
capable of instructing and delighting thousands lose their power, and
works, before neglected, emerge into renown. A small minority to whom
these works appealed has gradually become a large minority, and in the
evolution of opinion will perhaps become the majority. No man can
pretend to say that the work neglected today will not be a household
word tomorrow; or that the pride and glory of our age will not be
covered with cobwebs on the bookshelves of our children. Those works
alone can have enduring success which successfully appeal to what is
permanent in human nature--which, while suiting the taste of the day,
contain truths and beauty deeper than the opinions and tastes of the
day; but even temperary success implies a certain temporary fitness. In
Homer, Sophocles, Dante, Shakspeare, Cervantes, we are made aware of
much that no longer accords with the wisdom or the taste of our
day--temporary and immature expressions of fluctuating opinions--but we
are also aware of much that is both true and noble now, and will be so
for ever.
It is only posterity that can decide whether the success or failure
shall be enduring; for it is only posterity that can reveal whether the
relation now existing between the work and the public mind is or is not
liable to fluctuation. Yet no man really writes for posterity; no man
ought to do so.
"Wer machte denn der Mitwelt Spass?"
("Who is to amuse the present?") asks the wise Merry Andrew in
FAUST. We must leave posterity to choose its own idols. There is,
however, this chance in favour of any work which has once achieved
success, that what has pleased one generation may please another,
because it may be based upon a truth or beauty which cannot die; and
there is this chance against any work which has once failed, that its
unfitness may be owing to some falsehood or imperfection which cannot
live.
III.
In urging all writers to be steadfast in reliance on the ultimate
victory of excellence, we should no less strenuously urge upon them to
beware of the intemperate arrogance which attributes failure to a
degraded condition of the public mind. The instinct which leads the
world to worship success is not dangerous. The book which succeeds
accomplishes its aim. The book which fails may have many excellencies,
but they must have been misdirected. Let us, however, understand what
is meant by failure. From want of a clear recognition of this meaning,
many a serious writer has been made bitter by the reflection that
shallow, feeble works have found large audiences, whereas his own work
has not paid the printing expenses. He forgets that the readers who
found instruction and amusement in the shallow books could have found
none in his book, because he had not the art of making his ideas
intelligible and attractive to them, or had not duly considered what
food was assimilable by their minds. It is idle to write in
hieroglyphics for the mass when only priests can read the sacred
symbols.
No one, it is hoped, will suppose that by what is here said I
countenance the notion which is held by some authors--a notion implying
either arrogant self-sufficiency or mercenary servility--that to
succeed, a man should write down to the public. Quite the reverse. To
succeed, a man should write up to his ideal. He should do his very
best; certain that the very best will still fall short of what the
public can appreciate. He will only degrade his own mind by putting
forth works avowedly of inferior quality; and will find himself greatly
surpassed by writers whose inferior workmanship has nevertheless the
indefinable aspect of being the best they can produce. The man of
common mind is more directly in sympathy with the vulgar public, and
can speak to it more intelligibly, than any one who is condescending to
it. If you feel yourself to be above the mass, speak so as to raise the
mass to the height of your argument. It may be that the interval is too
great. It may be that the nature of your arguments is such as to demand
from the audience an intellectual preparation, and a habit of
concentrated continuity of thought, which cannot be expected from a
miscellaneous assembly. The scholarship of a Scaliger or the philosophy
of a Kant will obviously require an audience of scholars and
philosophers. And in cases where the nature of the work limits the
class of readers, no man should complain if the readers he does not
address pass him by to follow another. He will not allure these by
writing down to them; or if he allure them, he will lose those who
properly constitute his real audience.
A writer misdirects his talent if he lowers his standard of excellence.
Whatever he can do best let him do that, certain of reward in
proportion to his excellence. The reward is not always measurable by
the number of copies sold; that simply measures the extent of his
public. It may prove that he has stirred the hearts and enlightened the
minds of many. It may also prove, as Johnson says, "that his nonsense
suits their nonsense." The real reward of Literature is in the sympathy
of congenial minds, and is precious in proportion to the elevation of
those minds, and the gravity with which such sympathy moves: the
admiration of a mathematician for the MECANIQUE CELESTE, for example,
is altogether higher in kind than the admiration of a novel reader for
the last "delightful story." And what should we think of Laplace if he
were made bitter by the wider popularity of Dumas? Would he forfeit the
admiration of one philosopher for that of a thousand novel readers?
To ask this question is to answer it; yet daily experience tells us
that not only in lowering his standard, but in running after a
popularity incompatible with the nature of his talent, does many a
writer forfeit his chance of success. The novel and the drama, by
reason of their commanding influence over a large audience, often
seduce writers to forsake the path on which they could labour with some
success, but on which they know that only a very small audience can be
found; as if it were quantity more than quality, noise rather than
appreciation, which their mistaken desires sought. Unhappily for them,
they lose the substance, and only snap at the shadow. The audience may
be large, but it will not listen to them. The novel may be more popular
and more lucrative, when successful, than the history or the essay; but
to make it popular and lucrative the writer needs a special talent, and
this, as was before hinted, seems frequently forgotten by those who
take to novel writing. Nay, it is often forgotten by the critics; they
being, in general, men without the special talent themselves, set no
great value on it. They imagine that Invention may be replaced by
culture, and that clever "writing" will do duty for dramatic power.
They applaud the "drawing" of a character, which drawing turns out on
inspection to be little more than an epigrammatic enumeration of
particularities, the character thus "drawn" losing all individuality as
soon as speech and action are called upon. Indeed, there are two
mistakes very common among reviewers: one is the overvaluation of what
is usually considered as literary ability ("brilliant writing" it is
called; "literary tinsel" would be more descriptive) to the prejudice
of Invention and Individuality; the other is the overvaluation of what
they call "solid acquirements," which really mean no more than an
acquaintance with the classics. As a fact, literary ability and solid
acquirements are to be had in abundance; invention, humour, and
originality are excessively rare. It may be a painful reflection to
those who, having had a great deal of money spent on their education,
and having given a great deal of time to their solid aquirements, now
see genius and original power of all kinds more esteemed than their
learning; but they should reflect that what is learning now is only the
diffused form of what was once invention. "Solid acquirement" is the
genius of wits become the wisdom of reviewers.
IV.
Authors are styled an irritable race, and justly, if the epithet be
understood in its physiological rather than its moral sense. This
irritability, which responds to the slightest stimulus, leads to much
of the misdirection of talent we have been considering. The greatness
of an author consists in having a mind extremely irritable, and at the
same time steadfastly imperial:--irritable that no stimulus may be
inoperative, even in its most evanescent solicitations; imperial, that
no solicitation may divert him from his deliberately chosen aims. A
magisterial subjection of all dispersive influences, a concentration of
the mind upon the thing that has to be done, and a proud renunciation
of all means of effect which do not spontaneously connect themselves
with it--these are the rare qualities which mark out the man of genius.
In men of lesser calibre the mind is more constantly open to
determination from extrinsic influences. Their movement is not
self-determined, self-sustained. In men of still smaller calibre the
mind is entirely determined by extrinsic influences. They are prompted
to write poems by no musical instinct, but simply because great poems
have enchanted the world. They resolve to write novels upon the
vulgarest provocations: they see novels bringing money and fame; they
think there is no difficulty in the art. The novel will afford them an
opportunity of bringing in a variety of scattered details; scraps of
knowledge too scanty for an essay, and scraps of experience too meagre
for independent publication. Others, again, attempt histories, or works
of popular philosophy and science; not because they have any special
stores of knowledge, or because any striking novelty of conception
urges them to use up old material in a new shape, but simply because
they have just been reading with interest some work of history or
science, and are impatient to impart to others the knowledge they have
just acquired for themselves. Generally it may be remarked that the
pride which follows the sudden emancipation of the mind from ignorance
of any subject, is accompanied by a feeling that all the world must be
in the state of darkness from which we have ourselves emerged. It is
the knowledge learned yesterday which is most freely imparted today.
We need not insist on the obvious fact of there being more irritability
than mastery, more imitation than creation, more echoes than voices in
the world of Literature. Good writers are of necessity rare. But the
ranks would be less crowded with incompetent writers if men of real
ability were not so often misdirected in their aims. My object is to
decree, if possible, the Principles of Success--not to supply recipes
for absent power, but to expound the laws through which power is
efficient, and to explain the causes which determine success in exact
proportion to the native power on the one hand, and to the state of
public opinion on the other.
The laws of Literature may be grouped under three heads. Perhaps we
might say they are three forms of one principle. They are founded on
our threefold nature--intellectual, moral, and aesthetic.
The intellectual form is the PRINCIPLE OF VISION.
The moral form is the PRINCIPLE OF SINCERITY.
The aesthetic form is the PRINCIPLE OF BEAUTY.
It will be my endeavour to give definite significance, in succeeding
chapters, to these expressions, which, standing unexplained and
unillustrated, probably convey very little meaning. We shall then see
that every work, no matter what its subject-matter, necessarily
involves these three principles in varying degrees; and that its
success is always strictly in accordance with its conformity to the
guidance of these principles.
Unless a writer has what, for the sake of brevity, I have called
Vision, enabling him to see clearly the facts or ideas, the objects or
relations, which he places before us for our own instruction, his work
must obviously be defective. He must see clearly if we are to see
clearly. Unless a writer has Sincerity, urging him to place before us
what he sees and believes as he sees and believes it, the defective
earnestness of his presentation will cause an imperfect sympathy in us.
He must believe what he says, or we shall not believe it. Insincerity
is always weakness; sincerity even in error is strength. This is not so
obvious a principle as the first; at any rate it is one more profoundly
disregarded by writers.
Finally, unless the writer has grace--the principle of Beauty I have
named it--enabling him to give some aesthetic charm to his
presentation, were it only the charm of well-arranged material, and
well-constructed sentences, a charm sensible through all the
intricacies of COMPOSITION and of STYLE, he will not do justice to his
powers, and will either fail to make his work acceptable, or will very
seriously limit its success. The amount of influence issuing from this
principle of Beauty will, of course, be greatly determined by the more
or less aesthetic nature of the work.
Books minister to our knowledge, to our guidance, and to our delight,
by their truth, their uprightness, and their art. Truth is the aim of
Literature. Sincerity is moral truth. Beauty is aesthetic truth. How
rigorously these three principles determine the success of all works
whatever, and how rigorously every departure from them, no matter how
slight, determines proportional failure, with the inexorable sequence
of a physical law, it will be my endeavour to prove in the chapters
which are to follow.
EDITOR.
CHAPTER II
THE PRINCIPLE OF VISION.
All good Literature rests primarily on insight. All bad Literature
rests upon imperfect insight, or upon imitation, which may be defined
as seeing at second-hand.
There are men of clear insight who never become authors: some, because
no sufficient solicitation from internal or external impulses makes
them bond their energies to the task of giving literary expression to
their thoughts; and some, because they lack the adequate powers of
literary expression. But no man, be his felicity and facility of
expression what they may, ever produces good Literature unless he sees
for himself, and sees clearly. It is the very claim and purpose of
Literature to show others what they failed to see. Unless a man sees
this clearly for himself how can he show it to others?
Literature delivers tidings of the world within and the world without.
It tells of the facts which have been witnessed, reproduces the
emotions which have been felt. It places before the reader symbols
which represent the absent facts, or the relations of these to other
facts; and by the vivid presentation of the symbols of emotion kindles
the emotive sympathy of readers. The art of selecting the fitting
symbols, and of so arranging them as to be intelligible and kindling,
distinguishes the great writer from the great thinker; it is an art
which also relies on clear insight.
The value of the tidings brought by Literature is determined by their
authenticity. At all times the air is noisy with rumours, but the real
business of life is transacted on clear insight and authentic speech.
False tidings and idle rumours may for an hour clamorously usurp
attention, because they are believed to be true; but the cheat is soon
discovered, and the rumour dies. In like manner Literature which is
unauthentic may succeed as long as it is believed to be true: that is,
so long as our intellects have not discovered the falseness of its
pretensions, and our feelings have not disowned sympathy with its
expressions. These may be truisms, but they are constantly disregarded.
Writers have seldom any steadfast conviction that it is of primary
necessity for them to deliver tidings about what they themselves have
seen and felt. Perhaps their intimate consciousness assures them that
what they have seen or felt is neither new nor important. It may not be
new, it may not be intrinsically important; nevertheless, if authentic,
it has its value, and a far greater value than anything reported by
them at second-hand. We cannot demand from every man that he have
unusual depth of insight or exceptional experience; but we demand of
him that he give us of his best, and his best cannot be another's. The
facts seen through the vision of another, reported on the witness of
another, may be true, but the reporter cannot vouch for them. Let the
original observer speak for himself. Otherwise only rumours are set
afloat. If you have never seen an acid combine with a base you cannot
instructively speak to me of salts; and this, of course, is true in a
more emphatic degree with reference to more complex matters.
Personal experience is the basis of all real Literature. The writer
must have thought the thoughts, seen the objects (with bodily or mental
vision), and felt the feelings; otherwise he can have no power over us.
Importance does not depend on rarity so much as on authenticity. The
massacre of a distant tribe, which is heard through the report of
others, falls far below the heart-shaking effect of a murder committed
in our presence. Our sympathy with the unknown victim may originally
have been as torpid as that with the unknown tribe; but it has been
kindled by the swift and vivid suggestions of details visible to us as
spectators; whereas a severe and continuous effort of imagination is
needed to call up the kindling suggestions of the distant massacre.
So little do writers appreciate the importance of direct vision and
experience, that they are in general silent about what they themselves
have seen and felt, copious in reporting the experience of others. Nay,
they are urgently prompted to say what they know others think, and what
consequently they themselves may be expected to think. They are as if
dismayed at their own individuality, and suppress all traces of it in
order to catch the general tone. Such men may, indeed, be of service in
the ordinary commerce of Literature as distributors. All I wish to
point out is that they are distributors, not producers. The commerce
may be served by second-hand reporters, no less than by original seers;
but we must understand this service to be commercial and not literary.
The common stock of knowledge gains from it no addition. The man who
detects a new fact, a new property in a familiar substance, adds to the
science of the age; but the man who expounds the whole system of the
universe on the reports of others, unenlightened by new conceptions of
his own, does not add a grain to the common store. Great writers may
all be known by their solicitude about authenticity. A common incident,
a simple phenomenon, which has been a part of their experience, often
undergoes what may be called "a transfiguration" in their souls, and
issues in the form of Art; while many world-agitating events in which
they have not been acters, or majestic phenomena of which they were
never spectators, are by them left to the unhesitating incompetence of
writers who imagine that fine subjects make fine works. Either the
great writer leaves such materials untouched, or he employs them as the
vehicle of more cherished, because more authenticated tidings,--he
paints the ruin of an empire as the scenic background for his picture
of the distress of two simple hearts. The inferior writer, because he
lays no emphasis on authenticity, cannot understand this avoidance of
imposing themes. Condemned by naive incapacity to be a reporter, and
not a seer, he hopes to shine by the reflected glory of his subjects.
It is natural in him to mistake ambitious art for high art. He does not
feel that the best is the highest.
I do not assert that inferior writers abstain from the familiar and
trivial. On the contrary, as imitators, they imitate everything which
great writers have shown to be sources of interest. But their bias is
towards great subjects. They make no new ventures in the direction of
personal experience. They are silent on all that they have really seen
for themselves. Unable to see the deep significance of what is common,
they spontaneously turn towards the uncommon.
There is, at the present day, a fashion in Literature, and in Art
generally, which is very deporable, and which may, on a superficial
glance, appear at variance with what has just been said. The fashion is
that of coat-and-waistcoat realism, a creeping timidity of invention,
moving almost exclusively amid scenes of drawing-room existence, with
all the reticences and pettinesses of drawing-room conventions. Artists
have become photographers, and have turned the camera upon the
vulgarities of life, instead of representing the more impassioned
movements of life. The majority of books and pictures are addressed to
our lower faculties; they make no effort as they have no power to stir
our deeper emotions by the contagion of great ideas. Little that makes
life noble and solemn is reflected in the Art of our day; to amuse a
languid audience seems its highest aim. Seeing this, some of my readers
may ask whether the artists have not been faithful to the law I have
expounded, and chosen to paint the small things they have seen, rather
than the great things they have not seen? The answer is simple. For the
most part the artists have not painted what they have seen, but have
been false and conventional in their pretended realism. And whenever
they have painted truly, they have painted successfully. The
authenticity of their work has given it all the value which in the
nature of things such work could have. Titian's portrait of "The Young
Man with a Glove" is a great work of art, though not of great art. It
is infinitely higher than a portrait of Cromwell, by a painter unable
to see into the great soul of Cromwell, and to make us see it; but it
is infinitely lower than Titian's "Tribute Money," "Peter the Martyr,"
or the "Assumption." Tennyson's "Northern Farmer" is incomparably
greater as a poem than Mr. Bailey's ambitious "Festus;" but the
"Northern Farmer" is far below "Ulysses" or "Guinevere," because moving
on a lower level, and recording the facts of a lower life.
Insight is the first condition of Art. Yet many a man who has never
been beyond his village will be silent about that which he knows well,
and will fancy himself called upon to speak of the tropics or the
Andes---on the reports of others. Never having seen a greater man than
the parson and the squire and not having seen into them--he selects
Cromwell and Plato, Raphael and Napoleon, as his models, in the vain
belief that these impressive personalities will make his work
impressive. Of course I am speaking figuratively. By "never having been
beyond his village," I understand a mental no less than topographical
limitation. The penetrating sympathy of genius will, even from a
village, traverse the whole world. What I mean is, that unless by
personal experience, no matter through what avenues, a man has gained
clear insight into the facts of life, he cannot successfully place them
before us; and whatever insight he has gained, be it of important or of
unimportant facts, will be of value if truly reproduced. No sunset is
precisely similar to another, no two souls are affected by it in a
precisely similar way. Thus may the commonest phenomenon have a
novelty. To the eye that can read aright there is an infinite variety
even in the most ordinary human being. But to the careless
indiscriminating eye all individuality is merged in a misty generality.
Nature and men yield nothing new to such a mind. Of what avail is it
for a man to walk out into the tremulous mists of morning, to watch the
slow sunset, and wait for the rising stars, if he can tell us nothing
about these but what others have already told us---if he feels nothing
but what others have already felt? Let a man look for himself and tell
truly what he sees. We will listen to that. We must listen to it, for
its very authenticity has a subtle power of compulsion. What others
have seen and felt we can learn better from their own lips.
II.
I have not yet explained in any formal manner what the nature of that
insight is which constitutes what I have named the Principle of Vision;
although doubtless the reader has gathered its meaning from the remarks
already made. For the sake of future applications of the principle to
the various questions of philosophical criticism which must arise in
the course of this inquiry, it may be needful here to explain (as I
have already explained elsewhere) how the chief intellectual
operations--Perception, Inference, Reasoning, and Imagination--may be
viewed as so many forms of mental vision.
Perception, as distinguished from Sensation, is the presentation before
Consciousness of the details which once were present in conjunction
with the object at this moment affecting Sense. These details are
inferred to be still in conjunction with the object, although not
revealed to Sense. Thus when an apple is perceived by me, who merely
see it, all that Sense reports is of a certain coloured surface: the
roundness, the firmness, the fragrance, and the taste of the apple are
not present to Sense, but are made present to Consciousness by the act
of Perception. The eye sees a certain coloured surface; the mind sees
at the same instant many other co-existent but unapparent facts--it
reinstates in their due order these unapparent facts. Were it not for
this mental vision supplying the deficiencies of ocular vision, the
coloured surface would be an enigma. But the suggestion of Sense
rapidly recalls the experiences previously associated with the object.
The apparent facts disclose the facts that are unapparent.
Inference is only a higher form of the same process. We look from the
window, see the dripping leaves and the wet ground, and infer that rain
has fallen. It is on inferences of this kind that all knowledge
depends. The extension of the known to the unknown, of the apparent to
the unapparent, gives us Science. Except in the grandeur of its sweep,
the mind pursues the same course in the interpretation of geological
facts as in the interpretation of the ordinary incidents of daily
experience. To read the pages of the great Stone Book, and to perceive
from the wet streets that rain has recently fallen, are forms of the
same intellectual process. In the one case the inference traverses
immeasurable spaces of time, connecting the apparent facts with causes
(unapparent facts) similar to those which have been associated in
experience with such results; in the other case the inference connects
wet streets and swollen gutters with causes which have been associated
in experience with such results. Let the inference span with its mighty
arch a myriad of years, or link together the events of a few minutes,
in each case the arch rises from the ground of familiar facts, and
reaches an antecedent which is known to be a cause capable of producing
them.
The mental vision by which in Perception we see the unapparent
details---i.e, by which sensations formerly co-existing with the one
now affecting us are reinstated under the form of ideas which REPRESENT
the objects--is a process implied in all Ratiocination, which also
presents an IDEAL SERIES, such as would be a series of sensations, if
the objects themselves were before us. A chain of reasoning is a chain
of inferences: IDEAL presentations of objects and relations not
apparent to Sense, or not presentable to Sense. Could we realise all
the links in this chain, by placing the objects in their actual order
as a VISIBLE series, the reasoning would be a succession of
perceptions. Thus the path of a planet is seen by reason to be an
ellipse. It would be perceived as a fact, if we were in a proper
position and endowed with the requisite means of following the planet
in its course; but not having this power, we are reduced to infer the
unapparent points in its course from the points which are apparent. We
see them mentally. Correct reasoning is the ideal assemblage of objects
in their actual order of co-existence and succession. It is seeing with
the mind's eye. False reasoning is owing to some misplacement of the
order of objects, or to the omission of some links in the chain, or to
the introduction of objects not properly belonging to the series. It is
distorted or defective vision. The terrified traveller sees a
highwayman in what is really a sign-post in the twilight; and in the
twilight of knowledge, the terrified philosopher sees a Pestilence
foreshadowed by an eclipse.
Let attention also be called to one great source of error, which is
also a great source of power, namely, that much of our thinking is
carried on by signs instead of images. We use words as signs of
objects; these suffice to carry on the train of inference, when very
few images of the objects are called up. Let any one attend to his
thoughts and he will be surprised to find how rare and indistinct in
general are the images of objects which arise before his mind. If he
says "I shall take a cab and get to the railway by the shortest cut,"
it is ten to one that he forms no image of cab or railway, and but a
very vague image of the streets through which the shortest cut will
lead. Imaginative minds see images where ordinary minds see nothing but
signs: this is a source of power; but it is also a source of weakness;
for in the practical affairs of life, and in the theoretical
investigations of philosophy, a too active imagination is apt to
distract the attention and scatter the energies of the mind.
In complex trains of thought signs are indispensable. The images, when
called up, are only vanishing suggestions: they disappear before they
are more than half formed. And yet it is because signs are thus
substituted for images (paper transacting the business of money) that
we are so easily imposed upon by verbal fallacies and meaningless
phrases. A scientific man of some eminence was once taken in by a wag,
who gravely asked him whether he had read Bunsen's paper on the
MALLEABILITY of light. He confessed that he had not read it: "Bunsen
sent it to me, but I've not had time to look into it."
The degree in which each mind habitually substitutes signs for images
will be, CETERIS PARIBUS, the degree in which it is liable to error.
This is not contradicted by the fact that mathematical, astronomical,
and physical reasonings may, when complex, be carried on more
suecessfully by the employment of signs; because in these cases the
signs themselves accurately represent the abstractness of the
relations. Such sciences deal only with relations, and not with
objects; hence greater simplification ensures greater accuracy. But no
sooner do we quit this sphere of abstractions to enter that of concrete
things, than the use of symbols becomes a source of weakness. Vigorous
and effective minds habitually deal with concrete images. This is
notably the case with poets and great literates. Their vision is keener
than that of other men. However rapid and remote their flight of
thought, it is a succession of images, not of abstractions. The details
which give significance, and which by us are seen vaguely as through a
vanishing mist, are by them seen in sharp outlines. The image which to
us is a mere suggestion, is to them almost as vivid as the object. And
it is because they see vividly that they can paint effectively.
Most readers will recognise this to be true of poets, but will doubt
its application to philosophers, because imperfect psychology and
unscientific criticism have disguised the identity of intellectual
processes until it has become a paradox to say that imagination is not
less indispensable to the philosopher than to the poet. The paradox
falls directly we restate the proposition thus: both poet and
philosopher draw their power from the energy of their mental vision--an
energy which disengages the mind from the somnolence of habit and from
the pressure of obtrusive sensations. In general men are passive under
Sense and the routine of habitual inferences. They are unable to free
themselves from the importunities of the apparent facts and apparent
relations which solicit their attention; and when they make room for
unapparent facts it is only for those which are familiar to their
minds. Hence they can see little more than what they have been taught
to see; they can only think what they have been taught to think. For
independent vision, and original conception, we must go to children and
men of genius. The spontaneity of the one is the power of the other.
Ordinary men live among marvels and feel no wonder, grow familiar with
objects and learn nothing new about them. Then comes an independent
mind which sees; and it surprises us to find how servile we have been
to habit and opinion, how blind to what we also might have seen, had we
used our eyes. The link, so long hidden, has now been made visible to
us. We hasten to make it visible to others. But the flash of light
which revealed that obscured object does not help us to discover
others. Darkness still conceals much that we do not even suspect. We
continue our routine. We always think our views correct and complete;
if we thought otherwise they would cease to be our views; and when the
man of keener insight discloses our error, and reveals relations
hitherto unsuspected, we learn to see with his eyes and exclaim: "Now
surely we have got the truth."
III.
A child is playing with a piece of paper and brings it near the flame
of a candle; another child looks on. Both are completely absorbed by
the objects, both are ignorant or oblivious of the relation between the
combustible object and the flame: a relation which becomes apparent
only when the paper is alight. What is called the thoughtlessness of
childhood prevents their seeing this unapparent fact; it is a fact
which has not been sufficiently impressed upon their experience so as
to form an indissoluble element in their conception of the two in
juxtaposition. Whereas in the mind of the nurse this relation is so
vividly impressed that no sooner does the paper approach the flame than
the unapparent fact becomes almost as visible as the objects, and a
warning is given. She sees what the children do not, or cannot see. It
has become part of her organised experience.
The superiority of one mind over another depends on the rapidity with
which experiences are thus organised. The superiority may be general or
special: it may manifest itself in a power of assimilating very various
experiences, so as to have manifold relations familiar to it, or in a
power of assimilating very special relations, so as to constitute a
distinctive aptitude for one branch of art or science. The experience
which is thus organised must of course have been originally a direct
object of consciousness, either as an impressive fact or impressive
inference. Unless the paper had been seen to burn, no one could know
that contact with flame would consume it. By a vivid remembrance the
experience of the past is made available to the present, so that we do
not need actually to burn paper once more,--we see the relation
mentally. In like manner Newton did not need to go through the
demonstrations of many complex problems, they flashed upon him as he
read the propositions; they were seen by him in that rapid glance, as
they would have been made visible through the slower process of
demonstration. A good chemist does not need to test many a proposition
by bringing actual gases or acids into operation, and seeing the
result; he FORESEES the result: his mental vision of the objects and
their properties is so keen, his experience is so organised, that the
result which would be visible in an experiment, is visible to him in an
intuition. A fine poet has no need of the actual presence of men and
women under the fluctuating impatience of emotion, or under the
steadfast hopelessness of grief; he needs no setting sun before his
window, under it no sullen sea. These are all visible, and their
fluctuations are visible. He sees the quivering lip, the agitated soul;
he hears the aching cry, and the dreary wash of waves upon the beach.
The writer who pretends to instruct us should first assure himself that
he has clearer vision of the things he speaks of,--knows them and their
qualities, if not better than we, at least with some distinctive
knowledge. Otherwise he should announce himself as a mere echo,
a middleman, a distributor. Our need is for more light. This can be
given only by an independent seer who
"Lends a precious seeing to the eye."
All great authors are seers. "Perhaps if we should meet Shakspeare,"
says Emerson, "we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority: no,
but of great equality; only he possessed a strange skill of using, of
classifying his facts, which we lacked. For, notwithstanding our utter
incapacity to preduce anything like HAMLET or OTHELLO, we see the
perfect reception this wit and immense knowledge of life and liquid
eloquence find in us all." This aggrandisement of our common stature
rests on questionable ground. If our capacity of being moved by
Shakspeare discloses a community, our incapacity of producing HAMLET no
less discloses our inferiority. It is certain that could we meet
Shakspeare we should find him strikingly like ourselves---with the same
faculties, the same sensibilities, though not in the same degree. The
secret of his power over us lies, of course, in our having the capacity
to appreciate him. Yet we seeing him in the unimpassioned moods of
daily life, it is more than probable that we should see nothing in him
but what was ordinary; nay, in some qualities he would seem inferior.
Heroes require a perspective. They are men who look superhuman only
when elevated on the pedestals of their achievements. In ordinary life
they look like ordinary men; not that they are of the common mould, but
seem so because their uncommon qualities are not then called forth.
Superiority requires an occasion. The common man is helpless in an
emergency: assailed by contradictory suggestions, or confused by his
incapacity, he cannot see his way. The hour of emergency finds a hero
calm and strong, and strong because calm and clear-sighted; he sees
what can be done, and does it. This is often a thing of great
simplicity, so that we marvel others did not see it. Now it has been
done, and proved successful, many underrate its value, thinking that
they also would have done precisely the same thing. The world is more
just. It refuses to men unassailed by the difficulties of a situation
the glory they have not earned. The world knows how easy most things
appear when they have once been done. We can all make the egg stand on
end after Columbus.
Shakspeare, then, would probably not impress us with a sense of our
inferiority if we were to meet him tomorrow. Most likely we should be
bitterly disappointed; because, having formed our conception of him as
the man who wrote HAMLET and OTHELLO we forget that these were not the
preducts of his ordinary moods, but the manifestations of his power at
white heat. In ordinary moods he must be very much as ordinary men, and
it is in these we meet him. How notorious is the astonishment of
friends and associates when any man's achievements suddenly emerge into
renown. "They could never have believed it." Why should they? Knowing
him only as one of their circle, and not being gifted with the
penetration which discerns a latent energy, but only with the vision
which discerns apparent results, they are taken by surprise. Nay, so
biased are we by superficial judgments, that we frequently ignore the
palpable fact of achieved excellence simply because we cannot reconcile
it with our judgment of the man who achieved it. The deed has been
done, the work written, the picture painted; it is before the world,
and the world is ringing with applause. There is no doubt whatever that
the man whose name is in every mouth did the work; but because our
personal impressions of him do not correspond with our conceptions of a
powerful man, we abate or withdraw our admiration, and attribute his
success to lucky accident. This blear-eyed, taciturn, timid man, whose
knowledge of many things is manifestly imperfect, whose inaptitude for
many things is apparent, can HE be the creator of such glorious works?
Can HE be the large and patient thinker, the delicate humourist, the
impassioned poet? Nature seems to have answered this question for us;
yet so little are we inclined to accept Nature's emphatic testimony on
this point, that few of us ever see without disappointment the man
whose works have revealed his greatness.
It stands to reason that we should not rightly appreciate Shakspeare if
we were to meet him simply because we should meet him as an ordinary
man, and not as the author of HAMLET. Yet if we had a keen insight we
should detect even in his quiet talk the marks of an original mind. We
could not, of course, divine, without evidence, how deep and clear his
insight, how mighty his power over grand representative symbols, how
prodigal his genius: these only could appear on adequate occasions. But
we should notice that he had an independent way of looking at things.
He would constantly bring before us some latent fact, some unsuspected
relation, some resemblance between dissimilar things. We should feel
that his utterances were not echoes. If therefore, in these moments of
equable serenity, his mind glancing over trivial things saw them with
great clearness, we might infer that in moments of intense activity his
mind gazing steadfastly on important things, would see wonderful
visions, where to us all was vague and shifting. During our quiet walk
with him across the fields he said little, or little that was
memorable; but his eye was taking in the varying forms and relations of
objects, and slowly feeding his mind with images. The common hedge-row,
the gurgling brook, the waving corn, the shifting cloud-architecture,
and the sloping uplands, have been seen by us a thousand times, but
they show us nothing new; they have been seen by him a thousand times,
and each time with fresh interest, and fresh discovery. If he describe
that walk he will surprise us with revelations: we can then and
thereafter see all that he points out; but we needed his vision to
direct our own. And it is one of the incalculable influences of poetry
that each new revelation is an education of the eye and the feelings.
We learn to see and feel Nature in a far clearer and profounder way,
now that we have been taught to look by poets. The incurious
unimpassioned gaze of the Alpine peasant on the scenes which
mysteriously and profoundly affect the cultivated tourist, is the gaze
of one who has never been taught to look. The greater sensibility of
educated Europeans to influences which left even the poetic Greeks
unmoved, is due to the directing vision of successive poets.
The great difficulty which besets us all--Shakspeares and others, but
Shakspeares less than others---is the difficulty of disengaging the
mind from the thraldom of sensation and habit, and escaping from the
pressure of objects immediately present, or of ideas which naturally
emerge, linked together as they are by old associations. We have to see
anew, to think anew. It requires great vigour to escape from the old
and spontaneously recurrent trains of thought. And as this vigour is
native, not acquired, my readers may, perhaps, urge the futility of
expounding with so much pains a principle of success in Literature
which, however indispensable, must be useless as a guide; they may
object that although good Literature rests on insight, there is nothing
to be gained by saying "unless a man have the requisite insight he will
not succeed." But there is something to be gained. In the first place,
this is an analytical inquiry into the conditions of success: it aims
at discriminating the leading principles which inevitably determine
success. In the second place, supposing our analysis of the conditions
to be correct, practical guidance must follow. We cannot, it is true,
gain clearness of vision simply by recognising its necessity; but by
recognising its necessity we are taught to seek for it as a primary
condition of success; we are forced to come to an understanding with
ourselves as to whether we have or have not a distinct vision of the
thing we speak of, whether we are seers or reporters, whether the ideas
and feelings have been thought and felt by us as part and parcel of our
own individual experience, or have been echoed by us from the books and
conversation of others? We can always ask, are we painting farm-houses
or fairies because these are genuine visions of our own, or only
because farm-houses and fairies have been successfully painted by
others, and are poetic material?
The man who first saw an acid redden a vegetable-blue, had something to
communicate; and the man who first saw (mentally) that all acids redden
vegetable-blues, had something to communicate. But no man can do this
again. In the course of his teaching he may have frequently to report
the fact; but this repetition is not of much value unless it can be
made to disclose some new relation. And so of other and more complex
cases. Every sincere man can determine for himself whether he has any
authentic tidings to communicate; and although no man can hope to
discover much that is actually new, he ought to assure himself that
even what is old in his work has been authenticated by his own
experience. He should not even speak of acids reddening vegetable-blues
upon mere hearsay, unless he is speaking figuratively. All his facts
should have been verified by himself, all his ideas should have been
thought by himself. In proportion to the fulfilment of this condition
will be his success; in proportion to its non-fulfilment, his failure.
Literature in its vast extent includes writers of three different
classes, and in speaking of success we must always be understood to
mean the acceptance each writer gains in his own class; otherwise a
flashy novelist might seem more successful than a profound poet; a
clever compiler more successful than an original discoverer.
The Primary Class is composed of the born seers--men who see for
themselves and who originate. These are poets, philosophers,
discoverers. The Secondary Class is composed of men less puissant in
faculty, but genuine also in their way, who travel along the paths
opened by the great originaters, and also point out many a side-path
and shorter cut. They reproduce and vary the materials furnished by
others, but they do this, not as echoes only, they authenticate their
tidings, they take care to see what the discoverers have taught them to
see, and in consequence of this clear vision they are enabled to
arrange and modify the materials so as to produce new results. The
Primary Class is composed of men of genius; the Secondary Class of men
of talent. It not unfrequently happens, especially in philosophy and
science, that the man of talent may confer a lustre on the original
invention; he takes it up a nugget and lays it down a coin. Finally,
there is the largest class of all, comprising the Imitators in Art, and
the Compilers in Philosophy. These bring nothing to the general stock.
They are sometimes (not often) useful; but it is as cornfactors, not as
corn-growers. They sometimes do good service by distributing knowledge
where otherwise it might never penetrate; but in general their work is
more hurtful than beneficial: hurtful, because it is essentially bad
work, being insincere work, and because it stands in the way of better
work.
Even among Imitaters and Compilers there are almost infinite degrees of
merit and demerit: echoes of echoes reverberating echoes in endless
succession; compilations of all degrees of worth and worthlessness.
But, as will be shown hereafter, even in this lower sphere the worth of
the work is strictly proportional to the Vision, Sincerity, and Beauty;
so that an imitator whose eye is keen for the forms he imitates, whose
speech is honest, and whose talent has grace, will by these very
virtues rise almost to the Secondary Class, and will secure an
honourable success.
I have as yet said but little, and that incidentally, of the part
played by the Principle of Vision in Art. Many readers who will admit
the principle in Science and Philosophy, may hesitate in extending it
to Art, which, as they conceive, draws its inspirations from the
Imagination. Properly understood there is no discrepancy between the
two opinions; and in the next chapter I shall endeavour to show how
Imagination is only another form of this very Principle of Vision which
we have been considering.
EDITOR.