Lectures on Art.
Preliminary Note.
Ideas.
As the word _idea_ will frequently occur, and will be found
also to hold an important relation to our present subject, we shall
endeavour, _in limine_, to possess our readers of the particular
sense in which we understand and apply it.
An Idea, then, according to our apprehension, is the highest or most
perfect _form_ in which any thing, whether of the physical, the
intellectual, or the spiritual, may exist to the mind. By form, we do not
mean _figure_ or _image_ (though these may be included in relation to the
physical); but that condition, or state, in which such objects become
cognizable to the mind, or, in other words, become objects of
consciousness.
Ideas are of two kinds; which we shall distinguish by the terms _primary_
and _secondary_: the first being the _manifestation_ of objective
realities; the second, that of the reflex product, so to speak, of the
mental constitution. In both cases, they may be said to be
self-affirmed,--that is, they carry in themselves their own evidence;
being therefore not only independent of the reflective faculties, but
constituting the only unchangeable ground of Truth, to which those
faculties may ultimately refer. Yet have these Ideas no living energy in
themselves; they are but the _forms_, as we have said, through or in which
a higher Power manifests to the consciousness the supreme truth of all
things real, in respect to the first class; and, in respect to the second,
the imaginative truths of the mental products, or mental combinations. Of
the nature and mode of operation of the Power to which we refer, we know,
and can know, nothing; it is one of those secrets of our being which He
who made us has kept to himself. And we should be content with the
assurance, that we have in it a sure and intuitive guide to a reverent
knowledge of the beauty and grandeur of his works,--nay, of his own
adorable reality. And who shall gainsay it, should we add, that this
mysterious Power is essentially immanent in that "breath of life," by
which man becomes "a living soul"?
In the following remarks we shall confine ourself to the first
class of Ideas, namely, the Real; leaving the second to be noticed
hereafter.
As to number, ideas are limited only by the number of kinds, without
direct relation to degrees; every object, therefore, having in itself
a _distinctive essential_, has also its distinct idea; while two
or more objects of the same kind, however differing in degree, must
consequently refer only to one and the same. For instance, though a
hundred animals should differ in size, strength, or color, yet, if
none of these peculiarities are essential to the species, they would
all refer to the same supreme idea.
The same law applies equally, and with the same limitation, to
the essential differences in the intellectual, the moral, and the
spiritual. All ideas, however, have but a potential existence until
they are called into the consciousness by some real object; the
required condition of the object being a predetermined correspondence,
or correlation. Every such object we term an _assimilant_.
With respect to those ideas which relate to the physical world, we
remark, that, though the assimilants required are supplied by
the senses, the senses have in themselves no _productive,
coöperating_ energy, being but the passive instruments, or medium,
through which they are conveyed. That the senses, in this relation,
are merely passive, admits of no question, from the obvious difference
between the idea and the objects. The senses can do no more than
transmit the external in its actual forms, leaving the images in the
mind exactly as they found them; whereas the intuitive power rejects,
or assimilates, indefinitely, until they are resolved into the proper
perfect form. Now the power which prescribes that form must, of
necessity, be antecedent to the presentation of the objects which it
thus assimilates, as it could not else give consistence and unity to
what was before separate or fragmentary. And every one who has
ever realized an idea of the class in which alone we compare the
assimilants with the ideal form, be he poet, painter, or philosopher,
well knows the wide difference between the materials and their result.
When an idea is thus realized and made objective, it affirms its own
truth, nor can any process of the understanding shake its foundation;
nay, it is to the mind an essential, imperative truth, then emerging,
as it were, from the dark potential into the light of reality.
If this be so, the inference is plain, that the relation between the
actual and the ideal is one of necessity, and therefore, also, is the
predetermined correspondence between the prescribed form of an
idea and its assimilant; for how otherwise could the former become
recipient of that which was repugnant or indifferent, when the
presence of the latter constitutes the very condition by which it is
manifested, or can be known to exist? By actual, here, we do not mean
the exclusively physical, but whatever, in the strictest sense, can be
called an _object_, as forming the opposite to a mere subject of
the mind.
It would appear, then, that what we call ourself must have a
_dual_ reality, that is, in the mind and in the senses, since
neither _alone_ could possibly explain the phenomena of the
other; consequently, in the existence of either we have clearly
implied the reality of both. And hence must follow the still more
important truth, that, in the _conscious presence_ of any
_spiritual_ idea, we have the surest proof of a spiritual object;
nor is this the less certain, though we perceive not the assimilant.
Nay, a spiritual assimilant cannot be perceived, but, to use the words
of St. Paul, is "spiritually discerned," that is, by a sense, so to
speak, of our own spirit. But to illustrate by example: we could not,
for instance, have the ideas of good and evil without their objective
realities, nor of right and wrong, in any intelligible form, without
the moral law to which they refer,--which law we call the Conscience;
nor could we have the idea of a moral law without a moral lawgiver,
and, if moral, then intelligent, and, if intelligent, then personal;
in a word, we could not now have, as we know we have, the idea of
conscience, without an objective, personal God. Such ideas may well be
called revelations, since, without any perceived assimilant, we find
them equally affirmed with those ideas which relate to the purely
physical.
But here it may be asked, How are we to distinguish an Idea from a mere
_notion_? We answer, By its self-affirmation. For an ideal truth, having
its own evidence in itself, can neither be proved nor disproved by any
thing out of itself; whatever, then, impresses the mind _as_ truth, _is_
truth until it can be _shown_ to be false; and consequently, in the
converse, whatever can be brought into the sphere of the understanding, as
a dialectic subject, is not an Idea. It will be observed, however, that we
do not say an idea may not be denied; but to deny is not to disprove. Many
things are denied in direct contradiction to fact; for the mind can
command, and in no measured degree, the power of self-blinding, so that it
cannot see what is actually before it. This is a psychological fact, which
may be attested by thousands, who can well remember the time when they had
once clearly discerned what has now vanished from their minds. Nor does
the actual cessation of these primeval forms, or the after presence of
their fragmentary, nay, disfigured relics, disprove their reality, or
their original integrity, as we could not else call them up in their
proper forms at any future time, to the reacknowledging their truth: a
_resuscitation_ and result, so to speak, which many have experienced.
In conclusion: though it be but one and the same Power that prescribes
the form and determines the truth of all Ideas, there is yet an
essential difference between the two classes of ideas to which we have
referred; for it may well be doubted whether any Primary Idea can ever
be fully realized by a finite mind,--at least in the present state.
Take, for instance, the idea of beauty. In its highest form, as
presented to the consciousness, we still find it referring to
something beyond and above itself, as if it were but an approximation
to a still higher form. The truth of this, we think, will be
particularly felt by the artist, whether poet or painter, whose mind
may be supposed, from his natural bias, to be more peculiarly capable
of its highest developement; and what true artist was ever satisfied
with any idea of beauty of which he is conscious? From this
approximated form, however, he doubtless derives a high degree of
pleasure, nay, one of the purest of which his nature is capable;
yet still is the pleasure modified, if we may so express it, by an
undefined yearning for what he feels can never be realized. And
wherefore this craving, but for the archetype of that which called it
forth?--When we say not satisfied, we do not mean discontented, but
simply not in full fruition. And it is better that it should be
so, since one of the happiest elements of our nature is that which
continually impels it towards the indefinite and unattainable. So
far as we know, the like limits may be set to every other primary
idea,--as if the Creator had reserved to himself alone the possible
contemplation of the archetypes of his universe.
With regard to the other class, that of Secondary Ideas, which we
have called the reflex product of the mind, their distinguishing
characteristic is, that they not only admit of a perfect realization,
but also of outward manifestation, so as to be communicated to others.
All works of imagination, so called, present examples of this. Hence
they may also be termed imitative or imaginative. For, though they
draw their assimilants from the actual world, and are likewise
regulated by the unknown Power before mentioned, yet are they but the
forms of what, _as a whole_, have no actual existence;--they are
nevertheless true to the mind, and are made so by the same Power which
affirms their possibility. This species of Truth we shall hereafter
have occasion to distinguish as Poetic Truth.
Introductory Discourse.
Next to the developement of our moral nature, to have subordinated the
senses to the mind is the highest triumph of the civilized state. Were
it possible to embody the present complicated scheme of society, so as
to bring it before us as a visible object, there is perhaps nothing
in the world of sense that would so fill us with wonder; for what is
there in nature that may not fall within its limits? and yet how small
a portion of this stupendous fabric will be found to have any direct,
much less exclusive, relation to the actual wants of the body! It
might seem, indeed, to an unreflecting observer, that our physical
necessities, which, truly estimated, are few and simple, have rather
been increased than diminished by the civilized man. But this is not
true; for, if a wider duty is imposed on the senses, it is only to
minister to the increased demands of the imagination, which is now so
mingled with our every-day concerns, even with our dress, houses, and
furniture, that, except with the brutalized, the purely sensuous wants
might almost be said to have become extinct: with the cultivated and
refined, they are at least so modified as to be no longer prominent.
But this refilling on the physical, like every thing else, has had its
opponents: it is declaimed against as artificial. If by artificial is
meant unnatural, we cannot so consider it; but hold, on the contrary,
that the whole multiform scheme of the civilized state is not only in
accordance with our nature, but an essential condition to the proper
developement of the human being. It is presupposed by the very wants
of his mind; nor could it otherwise have been, any more than could
have been the cabin of the beaver, or the curious hive of the bee,
without their preëxisting instincts; it is therefore in the highest
sense natural, as growing out of the inherent desires of the mind.
But we would not be misunderstood. When we speak of the refined
state as not out of nature, we mean such results as proceed from the
legitimate growth of our mental constitution, which we suppose to
be grounded in permanent, universal principles; and, whatever
modifications, however subtile, and apparently visionary, may follow
their operation in the world of sense, so long as that operation
diverge not from its original ground, its effect must be, in the
strictest sense, natural. Thus the wildest visions of poetry, the
unsubstantial forms of painting, and the mysterious harmonies of
music, that seem to disembody the spirit, and make us creatures of the
air,--even these, unreal as they are, may all have their foundation
in immutable truth; and we may moreover know of this truth by its own
evidence. Of this species of evidence we shall have occasion to speak
hereafter. But there is another kind of growth, which may well be
called unnatural; we mean, of those diseased appetites, whose effects
are seen in the distorted forms of the _conventional_, having no
ground but in weariness of the true; and it cannot be denied that this
morbid growth has its full share, inwardly and outwardly, both of
space and importance. These, however, must sooner or later end as they
began; they perish in the lie they make; and it were well did not
other falsehoods take their places, to prolong a life whose only
tenure is inconsequential succession,--in other words, Fashion.
If it be true, then, that even the commonplaces of life must all in
some degree partake of the mental, there can be but one rule by which
to determine the proper rank of any object of pursuit, and that is by
its nearer or more remote relation to our inward nature. Every system,
therefore, which tends to degrade a mental pleasure to the subordinate
or superfluous, is both narrow and false, as virtually reversing its
natural order.
It pleased our Creator, when he endowed us with appetites and
functions by which to sustain the economy of life, at the same time to
annex to their exercise a sense of pleasure; hence our daily food, and
the daily alternation of repose and action, are no less grateful than
imperative. That life may be sustained, and most of its functions
performed, without any coincident enjoyment, is certainly possible.
Our food may be distasteful, action painful, and rest unrefreshing;
and yet we may eat, and exercise, and sleep, nay, live thus for years.
But this is not our natural condition, and we call it disease. Were
man a mere animal, the very act of living, in his natural or healthy
state, would be to him a continuous enjoyment. But he is also a moral
and an intellectual being; and, in like manner, is the healthful
condition of these, the nobler parts of his nature, attended with
something more than a consciousness of the mere process of existence.
To the exercise of his intellectual faculties and moral attributes the
same benevolent law has superadded a sense of pleasure,--of a kind,
too, in the same degree transcending the highest bodily sensation, as
must that which is immortal transcend the perishable. It is not for us
to ask why it is so; much less, because it squares not with the
poor notion of material usefulness, to call in question a fact that
announces a nature to which the senses are but passing ministers. Let
us rather receive this ennobling law, at least without misgiving, lest
in our sensuous wisdom we exchange an enduring gift for a transient
gratification.
Of the peculiar fruits of this law, which we shall here distinguish by
the general term _mental pleasures_, it is our purpose to treat
in the present discourse.
It is with no assumed diffidence that we venture on this subject; for,
though we shall offer nothing not believed to be true, we are but too
sensible how small a portion of truth it is in our power to present.
But, were it far greater, and the present writer of a much higher
order of intellect, there would still be sufficient cause for
humility in view of those impassable bounds that have ever met every
self-questioning of the mind.
But whilst the narrowness of human knowledge may well preclude all
self-exaltation, it would be worse than folly to hold as naught the
many important truths which have been wrought out for us by the mighty
intellects of the past. If they have left us nothing for vainglory,
they have left us at least enough to be grateful for. Nor is it
a little, that they have taught us to look into those mysterious
chambers of our being,--the abode of the spirit; and not a little,
indeed, if what we are there permitted to know shall have brought with
it the conviction, that we are not abandoned to a blind empiricism, to
waste life in guesses, and to guess at last that we have all our
lives been guessing wrong,--but, unapproachable though it be to the
subordinate Understanding, that we have still within us an abiding
Interpreter, which cannot be gainsaid, which makes our duty to God and
man clear as the light, which ever guards the fountain of all true
pleasures, nay, which holds in subjection the last high gift of the
Creator, that imaginative faculty whereby his exalted creature, made
in his image, might mould at will, from his most marvellous world, yet
unborn forms, even forms of beauty, grandeur, and majesty, having all
of truth but his own divine prerogative,--_the mystery of Life_.
As the greater part of those Pleasures which we propose to discuss are
intimately connected with the material world, it may be well, perhaps,
to assign some reason for the epithet _mental_. To many, we know,
this will seem superfluous; but, when it is remembered how often we
hear of this and that object delighting the eye, or of certain sounds
charming the ear, it may not be amiss to show that such expressions
have really no meaning except as metaphors. When the senses, as the
medium of communication, have conveyed to the mind either the sounds
or images, their function ceases. So also with respect to the objects:
their end is attained, at least as to us, when the sounds or images
are thus transmitted, which, so far as they are concerned, must for
ever remain the same within as without the mind. For, where the
ultimate end is not in mere bodily sensation, neither the senses nor
the objects possess, of themselves, any productive power; of the
product that follows, the _tertium aliquid_, whether the pleasure
we feel be in a beautiful animal or in according sounds, neither the
one nor the other is really the cause, but simply the _occasion_.
It is clear, then, that the effect realized supposes of necessity
another agent, which must therefore exist only in the mind. But of
this hereafter.
If the cause of any emotion, which we seem to derive from an outward
object, were inherent exclusively in the object itself, there could
be no failure in any instance, except where the organs of sense were
either diseased or imperfect. But it is a matter of fact that they
often do fail where there is no disease or organic defect. Many of us,
perhaps, can call to mind certain individuals, whose sense of hearing
is as acute as our own, who yet can by no possibility be made to
recognize the slightest relation between the according notes of the
simplest melody; and, though they can as readily as others distinguish
the individual sounds, even to the degrees of flatness and sharpness,
the harmonic agreement is to them as mere noise. Let us suppose
ourselves present at a concert, in company with one such person and
another who possesses what is called musical sensibility. How are
they affected, for instance, by a piece of Mozart's? In the sense
of hearing they are equal: look at them. In the one we perceive
perplexity, annoyance, perhaps pain; he hears nothing but a confused
medley of sounds. In the other, the whole being is rapt in ecstasy,
the unutterable pleasure gushes from his eyes, he cannot articulate
his emotion;--in the words of one, who felt and embodied the subtile
mystery in immortal verse, his very soul seems "lapped in Elysium."
Now, could this difference be possible, were the sole cause, strictly
speaking, in mere matter?
Nor do we contradict our position, when we admit, in certain
cases,--for instance, in the producer,--the necessity of a nicer
organization, in order to the more perfect _transmission_ of the
finer emotions; inasmuch as what is to be communicated in space and
time must needs be by some medium adapted thereto.
Such a person as Paganini, it is said, was able to "discourse most
excellent music" on a ballad-monger's fiddle; yet will any one
question that he needed an instrument of somewhat finer construction
to show forth his full powers? Nay, we might add, that he needed no
less than the most delicate _Cremona_,--some instrument, as it
were, articulated into humanity,--to have inhaled and respired those
attenuated strains, which, those who heard them think it hardly
extravagant to say, seemed almost to embody silence.
Now this mechanical instrument, by means of which such marvels were
wrought, is but one of the many visible symbols of that more subtile
instrument through which the mind acts when it would manifest itself.
It would be too absurd to ask if any one believed that the music we
speak of was created, as well as conveyed, by the instrument. The
violin of Paganini may still be seen and handled; but the soul that
inspired it is buried with its master.
If we admit a distinction between mind and matter, and the result we
speak of be purely mental, we should contradict the universal law
of nature to assign such a product to mere matter, inasmuch as the
natural law forbids in the lower the production of the higher. Take
an example from one of the lower forms of organic life,--a common
vegetable. Will any one assert that the surrounding inorganic elements
of air, earth, heat, and water produce its peculiar form? Though some,
or all, of these may be essential to its developement, they are so
only as its predetermined correlatives, without which its existence
could not be manifested; and in like manner must the peculiar form of
the vegetable preëxist in its life,--in its _idea_,--in order to
evolve by these assimilants its own proper organism.
No possible modification in the degrees or proportion of these
elements can change the specific form of a plant,--for instance, a
cabbage into a cauliflower; it must ever remain a cabbage, _small or
large, good or bad. _ So, too, is the external world to the
mind; which needs, also, as the condition of its manifestation, its
objective correlative. Hence the presence of some outward object,
predetermined to correspond to the preëxisting idea in its living
power, is essential to the evolution of its proper end,--the
pleasurable emotion. We beg it may be noted that we do not say
_sensation_. And hence we hold ourself justified in speaking of
such presence as simply the occasion, or condition, and not, _per
se_, the cause. And hence, moreover, may be inferred the absolute
necessity of Dual Forces in order to the actual existence of any
thing. One alone, the incomprehensible Author of all things, is
self-subsisting in his perfect Unity.
We shall now endeavour to establish the following proposition: namely,
that the Pleasures in question have their true source in One Intuitive
Universal Principle or living Power, and that the three Ideas of
Beauty, Truth, and Holiness, which we assume to represent the
_perfect_ in the physical, intellectual, and moral worlds, are
but the several realized phases of this sovereign principle, which we
shall call _Harmony_.
Our first step, then, is to possess ourself of the essential or
distinctive characteristic of these pleasurable emotions. Apparently,
there is nothing more simple. And yet we are acquainted with no single
term that shall fully express it. But what every one has more or less
felt may certainly be made intelligible in a more extended form, and,
we should think, by any one in the slightest degree competent to
self-examination. Let a person, then, be appealed to; and let him put
the question as to what passes within him when possessed by these
emotions; and the spontaneous feeling will answer for us, that what we
call _self_ has no part in them. Nay, we further assert, that,
when singly felt, that is, when unallied to other emotions as
modifying forces, they are wholly unmixed with _any personal
considerations, or any conscious advantage to the individual_.
Nor is this assigning too high a character to the feelings in question
because awakened in so many instances by the purely physical; since
their true origin may clearly be traced to a common source with those
profounder emotions which we are wont to ascribe to the intellectual
and moral. Besides, it should be borne in mind, that no physical
object can be otherwise to the mind than a mere _occasion_; its
inward product, or mental effect, being from another Power. The proper
view therefore is, not that such alliance can ever degrade the higher
agent, but that its more humble and material _assimilant_ is thus
elevated by it. So that nothing in nature should be counted mean,
which can thus be exalted; but rather be honored, since no object can
become so assimilated except by its predetermined correlation to our
better nature.
Neither is it the privilege of the exclusive few, the refined and
cultivated, to feel them deeply. If we look beyond ourselves, even to
the promiscuous multitude, the instance will be rare, if existing at
all, where some transient touch of these purer feelings has not raised
the individual to, at least, a momentary exemption from the common
thraldom of self. And we greatly err if their universality is not
solely limited by those "shades of the prison-house," which, in the
words of the poet, too often "close upon the growing boy." Nay, so
far as we have observed, we cannot admit it as a question whether any
person through a whole life has always been wholly insensible,--we
will not say (though well we might) to the good and true,--but to
beauty; at least, to some one kind, or degree, of the beautiful. The
most abject wretch, however animalized by vice, may still be able to
recall the time when a morning or evening sky, a bird, a flower, or
the sight of some other object in nature, has given him a pleasure,
which he felt to be distinct from that of his animal appetites, and
to which he could attach not a thought of self-interest. And, though
crime and misery may close the heart for years, and seal it up for
ever to every redeeming thought, they cannot so shut out from the
memory these gleams of innocence; even the brutified spirit, the
castaway of his kind, has been made to blush at this enduring light;
for it tells him of a truth, which might else have never been
remembered,--that he has once been a man.
And here may occur a question,--which might well be left to the ultra
advocates of the _cui bono_,--whether a simple flower may not
sometimes be of higher use than a labor-saving machine.
As to the objects whose effect on the mind is here discussed, it is
needless to specify them; they are, in general, all such as are known
to affect us in the manner described. The catalogue will vary both in
number and kind with different persons, according to the degree of
force or developement in the overruling Principle.
We proceed, then, to reply to such objections as will doubtless be
urged against the characteristic assumed. And first, as regards the
Beautiful, we shall probably be met by the received notion, that we
experience in Beauty one of the most powerful incentives to passion;
while examples without number will be brought in array to prove it
also the wonder-working cause of almost fabulous transformations,--as
giving energy to the indolent, patience to the quick, perseverance
to the fickle, even courage to the timid; and, _vice versâ_, as
unmanning the hero,--nay, urging the honorable to falsehood, treason,
and murder; in a word, through the mastered, bewildered, sophisticated
_self_, as indifferently raising and sinking the fascinated
object to the heights and depths of pleasure and misery, of virtue and
vice.
Now, if the Beauty here referred to is of the _human being_, we
do not gainsay it; but this is beauty in its _mixed mode_,--not
in its high, passionless form, its singleness and purity. It is not
Beauty as it descended from heaven, in the cloud, the rainbow, the
flower, the bird, or in the concord of sweet sounds, that seem to
carry back the soul to whence it came.
Could we look, indeed, at the human form in its simple, unallied
physical structure,--on that, for instance, of a beautiful woman,--and
forget, or rather not feel, that it is other than a _form_, there
could be but one feeling: that nothing visible was ever so framed to
banish from the soul every ignoble thought, and imbue it, as it were,
with primeval innocence.
We are quite aware that the doctrine assumed in our main proposition
with regard to Beauty, as holding exclusive relation to the Physical,
is not very likely to forestall favor; we therefore beg for it only
such candid attention as, for the reasons advanced, it may appear to
deserve.
That such effects as have just been objected could not be from Beauty
alone, in its pure and single form, but rather from its coincidence
with some real or supposed moral or intellectual quality, or with the
animal appetites, seems to us clear; as, were it otherwise, we might
infer the same from a beautiful infant,--the very thought of which is
revolting to common sense. In such conjunction, indeed, it cannot but
have a certain influence, but so modified as often to become a mere
accessory, subordinated to the animal or moral object, and for the
attainment of an end not its own; in proof of which, we find it almost
uniformly partaking the penalty imposed on its incidental associates,
should ever their desires result in illusion,--namely, in the aversion
that follows. But the result of Beauty can never be such; when it
seems otherwise, the effect, we think, can readily be traced to other
causes, as we shall presently endeavour to show.
It cannot be a matter of controversy whether Beauty is limited to the
human form; the daily experience of the most ordinary man would answer
No: he finds it in the woods, the fields, in plants and animals,
nay, in a thousand objects, as he looks upon nature; nor, though
indefinitely diversified, does he hesitate to assign to each the same
epithet. And why? Because the feelings awakened by all are similar in
kind, though varying, doubtless, by many degrees in intenseness. Now
suppose he is asked of what personal advantage is all this beauty to
him. Verily, he would be puzzled to answer. It gives him pleasure,
perhaps great pleasure. And this is all he could say. But why should
the effect be different, except in degree, from the beauty of a human
being? We have already the answer in this concluding term. For what is
a human being but one who unites in himself a physical, intellectual,
and moral nature, which cannot in one become even an object of thought
without at least some obscure shadowings of its natural allies? How,
then, can we separate that which has an exclusive relation to his
physical form, without some perception of the moral and intellectual
with which it is joined? But how do we know that Beauty is limited
to such exclusive relation? This brings us to the great problem; so
simple and easy of solution in all other cases, yet so intricate and
apparently inexplicable in man. In other things, it would be felt
absurd to make it a question, whether referring to form, color, or
sound. A single instance will suffice. Let us suppose, then, an
unfamiliar object, whose habits, disposition, and so forth, are wholly
unknown, for instance, a bird of paradise, to be seen for the
first time by twenty persons, and they all instantly call it
beautiful;--could there be any doubt that the pleasure it produced
in each was of the same kind? or would any one of them ascribe his
pleasure to any thing but its form and plumage? Concerning natural
objects, and those inferior animals which are not under the influence
of domestic associations, there is little or no difference among men:
if they differ, it is only in degree, according to their sensibility.
Men do not dispute about a rose. And why? Because there is nothing
beside the physical to interfere with the impression it was
predetermined to make; and the idea of beauty is realized instantly.
So, also, with respect to other objects of an opposite character; they
can speak without deliberating, and call them plain, homely, ugly, and
so on, thus instinctively expressing even their degree of remoteness
from the condition of beauty. Who ever called a pelican beautiful, or
even many animals endeared to us by their valuable qualities,--such as
the intelligent and docile elephant, or the affectionate orang-outang,
or the faithful mastiff? Nay, we may run through a long list of most
useful and amiable creatures, that could not, under any circumstances,
give birth to an emotion corresponding to that which we ascribe to the
beautiful.
But there is scarcely a subject on which mankind are wider at
variance, than on the beauty of their own species,--some preferring
this, and others that, particular conformation; which can only be
accounted for on the supposition of some predominant expression,
either moral, intellectual, or sensual, with which they are in
sympathy, or else the reverse. While some will task their memory,
and resort to the schools, for their supposed infallible
_rules_;--forgetting, meanwhile, that ultimate tribunal to which
their canon must itself appeal, the ever-living principle which first
evolved its truth, and which now, as then, is not to be reasoned
about, but _felt_. It need not be added how fruitful of blunders
is this mechanical ground.
Now we venture to assert that no mistake was ever made, even in a
single glance, concerning any natural object, not disfigured by human
caprice, or which the eye had not been trained to look at through
some conventional medium. Under this latter circumstance, there are
doubtless many things in nature which affect men very differently; and
more especially such as, from their familiar nearness, have come under
the influence of _opinion_, and been incrusted, as it were, by
the successive deposits of many generations. But of the vast and
various multitude of objects which have thus been forced from their
original state, there is perhaps no one which has undergone so many
and such strange disfigurements as the human form; or in relation to
which our "ideas," as we are pleased to call them, but in truth our
opinions, have been so fluctuating. If an Idea, indeed, had any thing
to do with Fashion, we should call many things monstrous to
which custom has reconciled us. Let us suppose a case, by way of
illustration. A gentleman and lady, from one of our fashionable
cities, are making a tour on the borders of some of our new
settlements in the West. They are standing on the edge of a forest,
perhaps admiring the grandeur of nature; perhaps, also, they are
lovers, and sharing with nature their admiration for each other, whose
personal charms are set off to the utmost, according to the most
approved notions, by the taste and elegance of their dress. Then
suppose an Indian hunter, who had never seen one of our civilized
world, or heard of our costume, coming suddenly upon them, their faces
being turned from him. Would it be possible for him to imagine what
kind of animals they were? We think not; and least of all, that he
would suppose them to be of his own species. This is no improbable
case; and we very much fear, should it ever occur, that the unrefined
savage would go home with an impression not very flattering either to
the milliner or the tailor.
That, under such disguises, we should consider human beauty as a kind
of enigma, or a thing to dispute about, is not surprising; nor even
that we should often differ from ourselves, when so much of the
outward man is thus made to depend on the shifting humors of some
paramount Petronius of the shears. But, admitting it to be an easy
matter to divest the form, or, what is still more important, our
own minds, of every thing conventional, there is the still greater
obstacle to any true effect from the person alone, in that moral
admixture, already mentioned, which, more or less, must color the
most of our impressions from every individual. Is there not, then,
sufficient ground for at least a doubt if, excepting idiots, there is
one human being in whom the purely physical is _at all times_ the
sole agent? We do not say that it does not generally predominate. But,
in a compound being like man, it seems next to impossible that the
nature within should not at times, in some degree, transpire through
the most rigid texture of the outward form. We may not, indeed, always
read aright the character thus obscurely indexed, or even be able to
guess at it, one way or the other; still, it will affect us; nay, most
so, perhaps, when most indefinite. Every man is, to a certain extent,
a physiognomist: we do not mean, according to the common acceptation,
that he is an interpreter of lines and quantities, which may be
reduced to rules; but that he is born one, judging, not by any
conscious rule, but by an instinct, which he can neither explain nor
comprehend, and which compels him to sit in judgment, whether he will
or no. How else can we account for those instantaneous sympathies and
antipathies towards an utter stranger?
Now this moral influence has a twofold source, one in the object,
and another in ourselves; nor is it easy to determine which is the
stronger as a counteracting force. Hitherto we have considered only
the former; we now proceed with a few remarks upon the latter.
Will any man say, that he is wholly without some natural or acquired
bias? This is the source of the counteracting influence which we speak
of in ourselves; but which, like many other of the secret springs,
both of thought and feeling, few men think of. It is nevertheless one
which, on this particular subject, is scarcely ever inactive;
and according to the bias will be our impressions, whether we be
intellectual or sensual, coldly speculative or ardently imaginative.
We do not mean that it is always called forth by every thing we
approach; we speak only of its usual activity between man and man; for
there seems to be a mysterious something in our nature, that, in spite
of our wishes, will rarely allow of an absolute indifference towards
any of the species; some effect, however slight, even as that of the
air which we unconsciously inhale and again respire, must follow,
whether directly from the object or reacting from ourselves. Nay, so
strong is the law, whether in attraction or repulsion, that we cannot
resist it even in relation to those human shadows projected on air by
the mere imagination; for we feel it in art only less than in nature,
provided, however, that the imagined being possess but the indication
of a human soul: yet not so is it, if presenting only the outward
form, since a mere form can in itself have no affinity with either
the heart or intellect. And here we would ask, Does not this
striking exception in the present argument cast back, as it were, a
confirmatory reflection?
We have often thought, that the power of the mere form could not be
more strongly exemplified than at a common paint-shop. Among the
annual importations from the various marts of Europe, how
many beautiful faces, without an atom of meaning, attract the
passengers,--stopping high and low, people of all descriptions,
and actually giving pleasure, if not to every one, at least to the
majority; and very justly, for they have beauty, and _nothing
else_. But let another artist, some man of genius, copy the same
faces, and add character,--breathe into them souls: from that moment
the passers-by would see as if with other eyes; the affections and
the imagination then become the spectators; and, according to the
quickness or dulness, the vulgarity or refinement, of these, would be
the impression. Thus a coarse mind may feel the beauty in the hard,
soulless forms of Van der Werf, yet turn away with apathy from the
sanctified loveliness of a Madonna by Raffaelle.
But to return to the individual bias, which is continually inclining
to, or repelling, What is more common, especially with women, than
a high admiration of a plain person, if connected with wit, or a
pleasing address? Can we have a stronger case in point than that of
the celebrated Wilkes, one of the ugliest, yet one of the most
admired men of his time? Even his own sex, blinded no doubt by their
sympathetic bias, could see no fault in him, either in mind or
person; for, when it was objected to the latter, that "he squinted
confoundedly," the reply was, "No, Sir, not more than a gentleman
ought to squint."
Of the tendency to particular pursuits,--to art, science, or any
particular course of life,--we do not speak; the bias we allude to is
in the more personal disposition of the man,--in that which gives a
tone to his internal character; nor is it material of what
proportions compounded, of the affections, or the intellect, or the
senses,--whether of some only, or the whole; that these form the
ground of every man's bias is no less certain, than the fact that
there is scarcely any secret which men are in the habit of guarding
with such sedulous care. Nay, it would seem as if every one were
impelled to it by some superstitious instinct, that every one might
have it to say to himself, There is one thing in me which is all _my
own_. Be this as it may, there are few things more hazardous than
to pronounce with confidence on any man's bias. Indeed, most men would
be puzzled to name it to themselves; but its existence in them is
not the less a fact, because the form assumed may be so mixed and
complicated as to be utterly undefinable. It is enough, however, that
every one feels, and is more or less led by it, whether definite or
not.
This being the case, how is it possible that it should not in some
degree affect our feelings towards every one we meet,--that it should
not leave some speck of leaven on each impression, which shall
impregnate it with something that we admire and love, or else with
that which we hate and despise?
And what is the most beautiful or the most ungainly form before a
sorcerer like this, who can endow a fair simpleton with the rarest
intellect, or transform, by a glance, the intellectual, noble-hearted
dwarf to an angel of light? These, of course, are extreme cases. But
if true in these, as we have reason to believe, how formidable the
power!
But though, as before observed, we may not read this secret with
precision, it is sometimes possible to make a shrewd guess at the
prevailing tendency in certain individuals. Perhaps the most obvious
cases are among the sanguine and imaginative; and the guess would be,
that a beautiful person would presently be enriched with all possible
virtues, while the colder speculatist would only see in it, not what
it possessed, but the mind that it wanted. Now it would be curious to
imagine (and the case is not impossible) how the eyes of each might be
opened, with the probable consequence, how each might feel when his
eyes were opened, and the object was seen as it really is. Some
untoward circumstance comes unawares on the perfect creature: a burst
of temper knits the brow, inflames the eye, inflates the nostril,
gnashes the teeth, and converts the angel into a storming fury. What
then becomes of the visionary virtues? They have passed into air, and
taken with them, also, what was the fair creature's right,--her
very beauty. Yet a different change takes place with the dry man of
intellect. The mindless object has taken shame of her ignorance; she
begins to cultivate her powers, which are gradually developed until
they expand and brighten; they inform her features, so that no one can
look upon them without seeing the evidence of no common intellect: the
dry man, at last, is struck with their superior intelligence, and what
more surprises him is the grace and beauty, which, for the first time,
they reveal to his eyes. The learned dust which had so long buried his
heart is quickly brushed away, and he weds the embodied mind. What
third change may follow, it is not to our purpose to foresee.
Has human beauty, then, no power? When united with virtue and
intellect, we might almost answer,--All power. It is the embodied
harmony of the true poet; his visible Muse; the guardian angel of his
better nature; the inspiring sibyl of his best affections, drawing him
to her with a purifying charm, from the selfishness of the world, from
poverty and neglect, from the low and base, nay, from his own frailty
or vices:--for he cannot approach her with unhallowed thoughts, whom
the unlettered and ignorant look up to with awe, as to one of a
race above them; before whom the wisest and best bow down without
abasement, and would bow in idolatry but for a higher reverence.
No! there is no power like this of mortal birth. But against the
antagonist moral, the human beauty of itself has no power, no
self-sustaining life. While it panders to evil desires, then, indeed,
there are few things may parallel its fearful might. But the unholy
alliance must at last have an end. Look at it then, when the beautiful
serpent has cast her slough.
Let us turn to it for a moment, and behold it in league with elegant
accomplishments and a subtile intellect: how complete its triumph! If
ever the soul may be said to be intoxicated, it is then, when it feels
the full power of a beautiful, bad woman. The fabled enchantments
of the East are less strange and wonder-working than the marvellous
changes which her spell has wrought. For a time every thought seems
bound to her will; the eternal eye of the conscience closes before
her; the everlasting truths of right and wrong sleep at her bidding;
nay, things most gross and abhorred become suddenly invested with
a seeming purity: till the whole mind is hers, and the bewildered
victim, drunk with her charms, calls evil good. Then, what may follow?
Read the annals of crime; it will tell us what follows the broken
spell,--broken by the first degrading theft, the first stroke of the
dagger, or the first drop of poison. The felon's eye turns upon the
beautiful sorceress with loathing and abhorrence: an asp, a toad, is
not more hateful! The story of Milwood has many counterparts.
But, although Beauty cannot sustain itself permanently against what is
morally bad, and has no direct power of producing good, it yet may,
and often does, when unobstructed, through its unimpassioned purity,
predispose to the good, except, perhaps, in natures grossly depraved;
inasmuch as all affinities to the pure are so many reproaches to the
vitiated mind, unless convertible to some selfish end. Witness the
beautiful wife, wedded for what is misnamed love, yet becoming the
scorn of a brutal husband,--the more bitter, perhaps, if she be also
good. But, aside from those counteracting causes so often mentioned,
it is as we have said: we are predisposed to feel kindly, and to think
purely, of every beautiful object, until we have reason to think
otherwise; and according to our own hearts will be our thoughts.
We are aware of but one other objection which has not been noticed,
and which might be made to the intuitive nature of the Idea. How is
it, we may be asked, that artists, who are supposed, from their early
discipline, to have overcome all conventional bias, and also to have
acquired the more difficult power of analyzing their models, so as to
contemplate them in their separate elements, have so often varied as
to their ideas of Beauty? Whether artists have really the power thus
ascribed to them, we shall not here inquire; it is no doubt, if
possible, their business to acquire it. But, admitting it as true, we
deny the position: they do not change their ideas. They can have but
one Idea of Beauty, inasmuch as that Idea is but a specific phase of
one immutable Principle,--if there be such a principle; as we shall
hereafter endeavour to show. Nor can they have of it any
essentially different, much less opposite, conceptions: but their
_apprehension_ of it may undergo many apparent changes, which,
nevertheless, are but the various degrees that only mark a fuller
conception; as their more extended acquaintance with the higher
outward assimilants of Beauty brings them, of course, nearer to a
perfect realization of the preëxisting Idea. By _perfect_, here,
we mean only the nearest approximation by man. And we appeal to every
artist, competent to answer, if it be not so. Does he ever descend
from a higher assimilant to a lower? Suppose him to have been born in
Italy; would he go to Holland to realize his Idea? But many a Dutchman
has sought in Italy what he could not find in his own country. We
do not by this intend any reflection on the latter,--a country so
fruitful of genius; it is only saying that the human form in Italy is
from a finer mould. Then, what directs the artist from one object to
another, and determines him which to choose, if he has not the guide
within him? And why else should all nations instinctively bow before
the superior forms of Greece?
We add but one remark. Supposing the artist to be wholly freed from
all modifying biases, such is seldom the case with those who criticize
his work,--especially those who would show their superiority by
detecting faults, and who frequently condemn the painter simply for
not expressing what he never aimed at. As to some, they are never
content if they do not find beauty, whatever the subject, though
it may neutralize the character, if not render it ridiculous. Were
Raffaelle, who seldom sought the purely beautiful, to be judged by
the want of it, he would fall below Guido. But his object was much
higher,--in the intellect and the affections; it was the human being
in his endless inflections of thought and passion, in which there is
little probability he will ever be approached. Yet false criticism has
been as prodigal to him in the ascription of beauty, as parsimonious
and unjust to many others.
In conclusion, may there not be, in the difficulty we have thus
endeavoured to solve, a probable significance of the responsible, as
well as distinct, position which the Human being holds in the world of
life? Are there no shadowings, in that reciprocal influence between
soul and soul, of some mysterious chain which links together the human
family in its two extremes, giving to the very lowest an indefeasible
claim on the highest, so that we cannot be independent if we would,
or indifferent even to the very meanest, without violation of an
imperative law of our nature? And does it not at least _hint_
of duties and affections towards the most deformed in body, the most
depraved in mind,--of interminable consequences? If man were a mere
animal, though the highest animal, could these inscrutable influences
affect us as they do? Would not the animal appetites be our true and
sole end? What even would Beauty be to the sated appetite? If it did
not, as in the last instance, of the brutal husband, become an object
of scorn,--which it could not be, from the necessary absence of moral
obliquity,--would it be better than a picked bone to a gorged dog?
Least of all could it resemble the visible sign of that pure idea, in
which so many lofty minds have recognized the type of a far higher
love than that of earth, which the soul shall know, when, in a better
world, she shall realize the ultimate reunion of Beauty with the
coëternal forms of Truth and Holiness.
We will now apply the characteristic assumed to the second leading
Idea, namely, to Truth. In the first place, we take it for granted,
that no one will deny to the perception of truth some positive
pleasure; no one, at least, who is not at the same time prepared to
contradict the general sense of mankind, nay, we will add, their
universal experience. The moment we begin to think, we begin to
acquire, whether it be in trifles or otherwise, some kind of
knowledge; and of two things presented to our notice, supposing one to
be true and the other false, no one ever knowingly, and for its own
sake, chooses the false: whatever he may do in after life, for some
selfish purpose, he cannot do so in childhood, where there is no such
motive, without violence to his nature. And here we are supposing the
understanding, with its triumphant pride and subtilty, out of the
question, and the child making his choice under the spontaneous sense
of the true and the false. For, were it otherwise, and the choice
indifferent, what possible foundation for the commonest acts of life,
even as it respects himself, would there be to him who should sow with
lies the very soil of his growing nature. It is time enough in manhood
to begin to lie to one's self; but a self-lying youth can have no
proper self to rest on, at any period. So that the greatest liar, even
Ferdinand Mendez Pinto, must have loved the truth,--at least at one
time of his life. We say _loved_; for a voluntary choice implies
of necessity some degree of pleasure in the choosing, however faint
the emotion or insignificant the object. It is, therefore, _caeteris
paribus_, not only necessary, but natural, to find pleasure in
truth.
Now the question is, whether the pleasurable emotion, which is, so
to speak, the indigenous growth of Truth, can in any case be free of
self, or some personal gratification. To this, we apprehend, there
will be no lack of answer. Nay, the answer has already been given from
the dark antiquity of ages, that even for her own exceeding loveliness
has Truth been canonized. If there was any thing of self in the
_Eureka_ of Pythagoras, there was not in the acclamations of
his country who rejoiced with him. But we may doubt the feeling, if
applied to him. If wealth or fame has sometimes followed in the track
of Genius, it has followed as an accident, but never preceded, as the
efficient conductor to any great discovery. For what is Genius but the
prophetic revealer of the unseen True, that can neither be purchased
nor bribed into light? If it come, then, at all, it must needs be
evoked by a kindred love as pure as itself. Shall we appeal to the
artist? If he deserve the name, he will disdain the imputation that
either wealth or fame has ever aided at the birth of his ideal
offspring: it was Truth that smiled upon him, that made light his
travail, that blessed their birth, and, by her fond recognition,
imparted to his breast her own most pure, unimpassioned emotion. But,
whatever mixed feeling, through the infirmity of the agent, may have
influenced the artist, whether poet or painter, there can be but one
feeling in the reader or spectator.
Indeed, so imperishable is this property of Truth, that it seems to
lose nothing of its power, even when causing itself to be reflected
from things that in themselves have, properly speaking, no truth. Of
this we have abundant examples in some of the Dutch pictures, where
the principal object is simply a dish of oysters or a pickled herring.
We remember a picture of this kind, consisting solely of these very
objects, from which we experienced a pleasure _almost_ exquisite.
And we would here remark, that the appetite then was in no way
concerned. The pleasure, therefore, must have been from the imitated
truth. It is certainly a curious question why this should be, while
the things themselves, that is, the actual objects, should produce no
such effect. And it seems to be because, in the latter case, there was
no truth involved. The real oysters, &c., were indeed so far true as
they were actual objects, but they did not contain a _truth_ in
_relation_ to any thing. Whereas, in the pictured oysters,
their relation to the actual was shown and verified in the mutual
resemblance.
If this be true, as we doubt not, we have at least one evidence, where
it might not be looked for, that there is that in Truth which is
satisfying of itself. But a stronger testimony may still be found
where, from all _à priori_ reasoning, we might expect, if not
positive pain, at least no pleasure; and that is, where we find it
united with human suffering, as in the deep scenes of tragedy. Now it
cannot be doubted, that some of our most refined pleasures are often
derived from this source, and from scenes that in nature we could
not look upon. And why is this, but for the reason assigned in the
preceding instance of a still-life picture? the only difference being,
that the latter is addressed to the senses, and the former to the
heart and intellect: which difference, however, well accounts for
their vast disparity of effect. But may not these tragic pleasures
have their source in sympathy alone? We answer, No. For who ever felt
it in watching the progress of actual villany or the betrayal of
innocence, or in being an eyewitness of murder? Now, though we revolt
at these and the like atrocities in actual life, it would be both new
and false to assert that they have no attraction in Art.
Nor do we believe that this acknowledged interest can well be traced
to any other source than the one assumed; namely, to the truth
of _relation_. And in this capacity does Truth stand to the
Imagination, which is the proper medium through which the artist,
whether poet or painter, projects his scenes.
The seat of interest here, then, being _in_ the imagination, it
is precisely on that account, and because it cannot be brought home to
self, that the pleasure ensues; which is plainly, therefore, derived
from its verisimilitude to the actual, and, though together with its
appropriate excitement, yet without its imperative condition, namely,
its call of _life_ on the living affections.
The proper word here is _interest_, not sympathy, for sympathy
with actual suffering, be the object good or bad, is in its nature
painful; an obvious reason why so few in the more prosaic world have
the virtue to seek it.
But is it not the business of the artist to touch the heart?
True,--and it is his high privilege, as its liege-lord, to sound its
very depths; nay, from its lowest deep to touch alike its loftiest
breathing pinnacle. Yet he may not even approach it, except through
the transforming atmosphere of the imagination, where alone the
saddest notes of woe, even the appalling shriek of despair, are
softened, as it were, by the tempering dews of this visionary region,
ere they fall upon the heart. Else how could we stand the smothered
moan of Desdemona, or the fiendish adjuration of Lady Macbeth,--more
frightful even than the after-deed of her husband,--or look upon the
agony of the wretched Judas, in the terrible picture of Rembrandt,
when he returns the purchase of blood to the impenetrable Sanhedrim?
Ay, how could we ever stand these but for that ideal panoply through
which we feel only their modified vibrations?
Let the imitation, or rather copy, be so close as to trench on
deception, the effect will be far different; for, the _condition_
of _relation_ being thus virtually lost, the copy becomes as
the original,--circumscribed by its own qualities, repulsive or
attractive, as the case may be. I remember a striking instance of this
in a celebrated actress, whose copies of actual suffering were so
painfully accurate, that I was forced to turn away from the scene,
unable to endure it; her scream of agony in Belvidera seemed to ring
in my ears for hours after. Not so was it with the great Mrs. Siddons,
who moved not a step but in a poetic atmosphere, through which the
fiercest passions seemed rather to _loom_ like distant mountains
when first descried at sea,--massive and solid, yet resting on air.
It would appear, then, that there is something in truth, though but
seen in the dim shadow of relation, that enforces interest,--and, so
it be without pain, at least some degree of pleasure; which, however
slight, is not unimportant, as presenting an impassable barrier to the
mere animal. We must not, however, be understood as claiming for this
Relative Truth the power of exciting a pleasurable interest in
all possible cases; there are exceptions, as in the horrible, the
loathsome, &c., which under no condition can be otherwise than
revolting. It is enough for our purpose, to have shown that its effect
is in most cases similar to that we have ascribed to Truth absolute.
But objections are the natural adversaries of every adventurer: there
is one in our path which we soon descried at our first setting
out. And we find it especially opposed to the assertion respecting
children; namely, that between two things, where there is no personal
advantage to bias the decision, they will always choose that which
seems to them true, rather than the other which appears false. To
this is opposed the notorious fact of the remarkable propensity which
children have to lying. This is readily admitted; but it does not meet
us, unless it can be shown that they have not in the act of lying an
eye to its _reward_,--setting aside any outward advantage,--in
the shape of self-complacent thought at their superior wit or
ingenuity. Now it is equally notorious, that such secret triumph will
often betray itself by a smile, or wink, or some other sign from
the chuckling urchin, which proves any thing but that the lie was
gratuitous. No, not even a child can love a lie purely for its own
sake; he would else love it in another, which is against fact. Indeed,
so far from it, that, long before he can have had any notion of what
is meant by honor, the word _liar_ becomes one of his first and
most opprobrious terms of reproach. Look at any child's face when he
tells his companion he lies. We ask no more than that most logical
expression; and, if it speak not of a natural abhorrence only to be
overcome by self-interest, there is no trust in any thing. No. We
cannot believe that man or child, however depraved, _could_ tell
an _unproductive, gratuitous lie_.
Of the last and highest source of our pleasurable emotions we need say
little; since no one will question that, if sought at all, it can
only be for its own sake. But it does not become us--at least in this
place--to enter on the subject of Holiness; of that angelic state,
whose only manifestation is in the perfect unison with the Divine
Will. We may, however, consider it in the next degree, as it is known,
and as we believe often realized, among men: we mean Goodness.