First, by Originality.
Secondly, by what we shall call Human or Poetic Truth; which is the
verifying principle by which we recognize the first.
Thirdly, by Invention; the product of the Imagination, as grounded on
the first, and verified by the second. And,
Fourthly, by Unity, the synthesis of all.
As the first step to the right understanding of any discourse is a
clear apprehension of the terms used, we add, that by Originality we
mean any thing (admitted by the mind as _true_) which is peculiar
to the Author, and which distinguishes his production from that of
all others; by Human or Poetic Truth, that which may be said to exist
exclusively in and for the mind, and as contradistinguished from the
truth of things in the natural or external world; by Invention, any
unpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the combination
of entire objects already known, or by the union and modification
of known but fragmentary parts into new and consistent forms; and,
lastly, by Unity, such an agreement and interdependence of all the
parts, as shall constitute a whole.
It will be our attempt to show, that, by the presence or absence of
any one of these characteristics, we shall be able to affirm or deny
in respect to the pretension of any object as a work of Art; and also
that we shall find within ourselves the corresponding law, or by
whatever word we choose to designate it, by which each will be
recognized; that is, in the degree proportioned to the developement,
or active force, of the law so judging.
Supposing the reader to have gone along with us in what has been said of
the _Universal_, in our Preliminary Discourse, and as assenting to the
position, that any faculty, law, or principle, which can be shown to be
_essential_ to _any one_ mind, must necessarily be also predicated of
every other sound mind, even where the particular faculty or law is so
feebly developed as apparently to amount to its absence, in which case
it is inferred potentially,--we shall now assume, on the same grounds,
that the originating _cause_, notwithstanding its apparent absence in
the majority of men, is an essential reality in the condition of the
Human Being; its potential existence in all being of necessity affirmed
from its existence in one.
Assuming, then, its reality,--or rather leaving it to be evidenced
from its known effects,--we proceed to inquire _in what_ consists
this originating power.
And, first, as to its most simple form. If it be true, (as we hope to
set forth more at large in a future discourse,) that no two minds were
ever found to be identical, there must then in every individual mind
be _something_ which is not in any other. And, if this unknown
something is also found to give its peculiar hue, so to speak,
to every impression from outward objects, it seems but a natural
inference, that, whatever it be, it _must_ possess a pervading
force over the entire mind,--at least, in relation to what is
external. But, though this may truly be affirmed of man generally,
from its evidence in any one person, we shall be far from the fact,
should we therefore affirm, that, otherwise than potentially, the
power of outwardly manifesting it is also universal. We know that it
is not,--and our daily experience proves that the power of reproducing
or giving out the individualized impressions is widely different in
different men. With some it is so feeble as apparently never to act;
and, so far as our subject is concerned, it may practically be said
not to exist; of which we have abundant examples in other mental
phenomena, where an imperfect activity often renders the existence of
some essential faculty a virtual nullity. When it acts in the higher
decrees, so as to make another see or feel _as_ the Individual
saw or felt,--this, in relation to Art, is what we mean, in its
strictest sense, by Originality. He, therefore, who possesses the
power of presenting to another the _precise_ images or emotions
as they existed in himself, presents that which can be found nowhere
else, and was first found by and within himself; and, however light or
trifling, where these are true as to his own mind, their author is so
far an originator.
But let us take an example, and suppose two _portraits_; simple
heads, without accessories, that is, with blank backgrounds, such as
we often see, where no attempt is made at composition; and both by
artists of equal talent, employing the same materials, and conducting
their work according to the same technical process. We will also
suppose ourselves acquainted with the person represented, with whom
to compare them. Who, that has ever made a similar comparison, will
expect to find them identical? On the contrary, though in all respects
equal, in execution, likeness, &c., we shall still perceive a certain
_exclusive something_ that will instantly distinguish the one
from the other, and both from the original. And yet they shall both
seem to us true. But they will be true to us also in a double sense;
namely, as to the living original and as to the individuality of
the different painters. Where such is the result, both artists must
originate, inasmuch as they both outwardly realize the individual
image of their distinctive minds.
Nor can the truth they present be ascribed to the technic process,
which we have supposed the same with each; as, on such a supposition,
with their equal skill, the result must have been identical. No;
by whatever it is that one man's mental impression, or his mode of
thought, is made to differ from another's, it is that something, which
our imaginary artists have here transferred to their pencil, that
makes them different, yet both original.
Now, whether the medium through which the impressions, conceptions, or
emotions of the mind are thus externally realized be that of colors,
words, or any thing else, this mysterious though certain principle is,
as we believe, the true and only source of all originality.
In the power of assimilating what is foreign, or external, to our own
particular nature consists the individualizing law, and in the power
of reproducing what is thus modified consists the originating cause.
Let us turn now to an opposite example,--to a mere mechanical copy of
some natural object, where the marks in question are wholly wanting.
Will any one be truly affected by it? We think not; we do not say that
he will not praise it,--this he may do from various motives; but his
_feeling_--if we may so name the index of the law within--will
not be called forth to any spontaneous correspondence with the object
before him.
But why talk of feeling, says the pseudo-connoisseur, where we should
only, or at least first, bring knowledge? This is the common cant of
those who become critics for the sake of distinction. Let the Artist
avoid them, if he would not disfranchise himself in the suppression
of that uncompromising _test_ within him, which is the only sure
guide to the truth without.
It is a poor ambition to desire the office of a judge merely for
the sake of passing sentence. But such an ambition is not likely to
possess a person of true sensibility. There are some, however, in
whom there is no deficiency of sensibility, yet who, either from
self-distrust, or from some mistaken notion of Art, are easily
persuaded to give up a right feeling, in exchange for what they may
suppose to be knowledge,--the barren knowledge of faults; as if there
could be a human production without them! Nevertheless, there is
little to be apprehended from any conventional theory, by one who is
forewarned of its mere negative power,--that it can, at best, only
suppress feeling; for no one ever was, or ever can be, argued into
a real liking for what he has once felt to be false. But, where the
feeling is genuine, and not the mere reflex of a popular notion, so
far as it goes it must be true. Let no one, therefore, distrust it, to
take counsel of his head, when he finds himself standing before a work
of Art. Does he feel its truth? is the only question,--if, indeed, the
impertinence of the understanding should then propound one; which we
think it will not, where the feeling is powerful. To such a one, the
characteristic of Art upon which we are now discoursing will force
its way with the power of light; nor will he ever be in danger of
mistaking a mechanical copy for a living imitation.
But we sometimes hear of "faithful transcripts," nay, of fac-similes.
If by these be implied neither more nor less than exists in their
originals, they must still, in that case, find their true place in
the dead category of Copy. Yet we need not be detained by any inquiry
concerning the merits of a fac-simile, since we firmly deny that a
fac-simile, in the true sense of the term, is a thing possible.
That an absolute identity between any natural object and its represented
image is a thing impossible, will hardly be questioned by any one who
thinks, and will give the subject a moment's reflection; and the
difficulty lies in the nature of things, the one being the work of the
Creator, and the other of the creature. We shall therefore assume as a
fact, the eternal and insuperable difference between Art and Nature. That
our pleasure from Art is nevertheless similar, not to say equal, to that
which we derive from Nature, is also a fact established by experience; to
account for which we are necessarily led to the admission of another fact,
namely, that there exists in Art a _peculiar something_ which we receive
as equivalent to the admitted difference. Now, whether we call this
equivalent, individualized truth, or human or poetic truth, it matters
not; we know by its _effects_, that some such principle does exist, and
that it acts upon us, and in a way corresponding to the operation of that
which we call Truth and Life in the natural world. Of the various laws
growing out of this principle, which take the name of Rules when applied
to Art, we shall have occasion to speak in a future discourse. At present
we shall confine ourselves to the inquiry, how far the difference alluded
to may be safely allowed in any work professing to be an imitation of
Nature.
The fact, that truth may subsist with a very considerable admixture
of falsehood, is too well known to require an argument. However
reprehensible such an admixture may be in morals, it becomes in Art,
from the limited nature of our powers, a matter of necessity.
For the same reason, even the realizing of a thought, or that which
is properly and exclusively human, must ever be imperfect. If Truth,
then, form but the greater proportion, it is quite as much as we may
reasonably look for in a work of Art. But why, it may be asked, where
the false predominates, do we still derive pleasure? Simply because of
the Truth that remains. If it be further demanded, What is the minimum
of truth in order to a pleasurable effect? we reply, So much only as
will cause us to feel that the truth _exists_. It is this feeling
alone that determines, not only the true, but the degrees of truth,
and consequently the degrees of pleasure.
Where no such feeling is awakened, and supposing no deficiency in the
recipient, he may safely, from its absence, pronounce the work false;
nor could any ingenious theory of the understanding convince him to
the contrary. He may, indeed, as some are wont to do, make a random
guess, and _call_ the work true; but he can never so _feel_
it by any effort of reasoning. But may not men differ as to their
impressions of truth? Certainly as to the degrees of it, and in this
according to their sensibility, in which we know that men are not
equal. By sensibility here we mean the power or capacity of receiving
impressions. All men, indeed, with equal organs, may be said in a
certain sense to see alike. But will the same natural object,
conveyed through these organs, leave the same impression? The fact is
otherwise. What, then, causes the difference, if it be not (as before
observed) a peculiar something in the individual mind, that modifies
the image? If so, there must of necessity be in every true work of
Art--if we may venture the expression--another, or distinctive, truth.
To recognize this, therefore,--as we have elsewhere endeavoured to
show,--supposes in the recipient something akin to it. And, though it
be in reality but a _sign_ of life, it is still a sign of which
we no sooner receive the impress, than, by a law of our mind, we feel
it to be acting upon our thoughts and sympathies, without our knowing
how or wherefore. Admitting, therefore, the corresponding instinct,
or whatever else it may be called, to vary in men,--which there is no
reason to doubt,--the solution of their unequal impression appears at
once. Hence it would be no extravagant metaphor, should we affirm that
some persons see more with their minds than others with their eyes.
Nay, it must be obvious to all who are conversant with Art, that
much, if not the greater part, in its higher branches is especially
addressed to this mental vision. And it is very certain, if there were
no truth beyond the reach of the senses, that little would remain to
us of what we now consider our highest and most refined pleasure.
But it must not be inferred that originality consists in any
contradiction to Nature; for, were this allowed and carried out, it
would bring us to the conclusion, that, the greater the contradiction,
the higher the Art. We insist only on the modification of the natural
by the personal; for Nature is, and ever must be, at least the
sensuous ground of all Art: and where the outward and inward are
so united that we cannot separate them, there shall we find the
perfection of Art. So complete a union has, perhaps, never been
accomplished, and _may_ be impossible; it is certain, however,
that no approach to excellence can ever be made, if the _idea_ of
such a union be not constantly looked to by the artist as his ultimate
aim. Nor can the idea be admitted without supposing a _third_ as
the product of the two,--which we call Art; between which and Nature,
in its strictest sense, there must ever be a difference; indeed, a
_difference with resemblance_ is that which constitutes its
essential condition.
It has doubtless been observed, that, in this inquiry concerning the
nature and operation of the first characteristic, the presence of the
second, or verifying principle, has been all along implied; nor could
it be otherwise, because of their mutual dependence. Still more will
its active agency be supposed in our examination of the third, namely,
Invention. But before we proceed to that, the paramount index of the
highest art, it may not be amiss to obtain, if possible, some distinct
apprehension of what we have termed Poetic Truth; to which, it will be
remembered, was also prefixed the epithet Human, our object therein
being to prepare the mind, by a single word, for its peculiar sphere;
and we think it applicable also for a more important reason,
namely, that this kind of Truth is the _true ground of the
poetical_,--for in what consists the poetry of the natural world,
if not in the sentiment and reacting life it receives from the human
fancy and affections? And, until it can be shown that sentiment and
fancy are also shared by the brute creation, this seeming effluence
from the beautiful in nature must rightfully revert to man. What, for
instance, can we suppose to be the effect of the purple haze of a
summer sunset on the cows and sheep, or even on the more delicate
inhabitants of the air? From what we know of their habits, we
cannot suppose more than the mere physical enjoyment of its genial
temperature. But how is it with the poet, whom we shall suppose
an object in the same scene, stretched on the same bank with the
ruminating cattle, and basking in the same light that flickers from
the skimming birds. Does he feel nothing more than the genial warmth?
Ask him, and he perhaps will say,--"This is my soul's hour; this
purpled air the heart's atmosphere, melting by its breath the sealed
fountains of love, which the cold commonplace of the world had frozen:
I feel them gushing forth on every thing around me; and how worthy of
love now appear to me these innocent animals, nay, these whispering
leaves, that seem to kiss the passing air, and blush the while at
their own fondness! Surely they are happy, and grateful too that they
are so; for hark! how the little birds send up their song of praise!
and see how the waving trees and waving grass, in mute accordance,
keep time with the hymn!"
This is but one of the thousand forms in which the human spirit is
wont to effuse itself on the things without, making to the mind a
new and fairer world,--even the shadowing of that which its immortal
craving will sometimes dream of in the unknown future. Nay, there
is scarcely an object so familiar or humble, that its magical touch
cannot invest it with some poetic charm. Let us take an extreme
instance,--a pig in his sty. The painter, Morland, was able to convert
even this disgusting object into a source of pleasure,--and a pleasure
as real as any that is known to the palate.
Leaving this to have the weight it may be found to deserve, we turn
to the original question; namely, What do we mean by Human or Poetic
Truth?
When, in respect to certain objects, the effects are found to be
uniformly of the same kind, not only upon ourselves, but also upon
others, we may reasonably infer that the efficient cause is of one
nature, and that its uniformity is a necessary result. And, when we also
find that these effects, though differing in degree, are yet uniform in
their character, while they seem to proceed from objects which in
themselves are indefinitely variant, both in kind and degree, we are
still more forcibly drawn to the conclusion, that the _cause_ is not
only _one_, but not inherent in the object.[2] The question now arises,
What, then, is that which seems to us so like an _alter et idem_,--which
appears to act upon, and is recognized by us, through an animal, a bird,
a tree, and a thousand different, nay, opposing objects, in the same
way, and to the same end? The inference follows of necessity, that the
mysterious cause must be in some general law, which is absolute and
_imperative_ in relation to every such object under certain conditions.
And we receive the solution as true,--because we cannot help it. The
reality, then, of such a law becomes a fixture in the mind.
But we do not stop here: we would know something concerning the
conditions supposed. And in order to this, we go back to the effect.
And the answer is returned in the form of a question,--May it not
be something _from ourselves_, which is reflected back by the
object,--something with which, as it were, we imbue the object, making
it correspond to a _reality_ within us? Now we recognize the
reality within; we recognize it also in the object,--and the affirming
light flashes upon us, not in the form of _deduction_, but of
inherent Truth, which we cannot get rid of; and we _call_ it
Truth,--for it will take no other name.
It now remains to discover, so to speak, its location. In what part,
then, of man may this self-evidenced, yet elusive, Truth or power be
said to reside? It cannot be in the senses; for the senses can impart
no more than they receive. Is it, then, in the mind? Here we are
compelled to ask, What is understood by the mind? Do we mean the
understanding? We can trace no relation between the Truth we would
class and the reflective faculties. Or in the moral principle? Surely
not; for we can predicate neither good nor evil by the Truth in
question. Finally, do we find it identified with the truth of
the Spirit? But what is the truth of the Spirit but the Spirit
itself,--the conscious _I_? which is never even thought of in
connection with it. In what form, then, shall we recognize it? In
its own,--the form of Life,--the life of the Human Being; that
self-projecting, realizing power, which is ever present, ever acting
and giving judgment on the instant on all things corresponding with
its inscrutable self. We now assign it a distinctive epithet, and call
it Human.
It is a common saying, that there is more in a name than we are apt
to imagine. And the saying is not without reason; for when the name
happens to be the true one, being proved in its application, it
becomes no unimportant indicator as to the particular offices for
which the thing named was designed. So we find it with respect to the
Truth of which we speak; its distinctive epithet marking out to us, as
its sphere of action, the mysterious intercourse between man and man;
whether the medium consist in words or colors, in thought or form, or
in any thing else on which the human agent may impress, be it in a
sign only, his own marvellous life. As to the process or _modus
operandi_, it were a vain endeavour to seek it out: that divine
secret must ever to man be an humbling darkness. It is enough for him
to know that there is that within him which is ever answering to that
without, as life to life,--which must be life, and which must be true.
We proceed now to the third characteristic. It has already been
stated, in the general definition, what we would be understood to mean
by the term Invention, in its particular relation to Art; namely, any
unpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the combination
of forms already known, or by the union and modification of known
but fragmentary parts into a new and consistent whole: in both cases
tested by the two preceding characteristics.
We shall consider first that division of the subject which stands first
in order,--the Invention which consists in the new combination of known
forms. This may be said to be governed by its exclusive relation either
to _what is_, or _has been_, or, when limited by the _probable_, to what
strictly may be. It may therefore be distinguished by the term Natural.
But though we so name it, inasmuch as all its forms have their
prototypes in the Actual, it must still be remembered that these
existing forms do substantially constitute no more than mere _parts_ to
be combined into a _whole_, for which Nature has provided no original.
For examples in this, the most comprehensive class, we need not refer
to any particular school; they are to be found in all and in every
gallery: from the histories of Raffaelle, the landscapes of Claude and
Poussin and others, to the familiar scenes of Jan Steen, Ostade, and
Brower. In each of these an adherence to the actual, if not strictly
observed, is at least supposed in all its parts; not so in the whole, as
that relates to the probable; by which we mean such a result as _would
be_ true, were the same combination to occur in nature. Nor must we be
understood to mean, by adherence to the actual, that one part is to be
taken for an exact portrait; we mean only such an imitation as precludes
an intentional deviation from already existing and known forms.
It must be very obvious, that, in classing together any of the
productions of the artists above named, it cannot be intended to
reduce them to a level; such an attempt (did our argument require it)
must instantly revolt the common sense and feeling of every one at all
acquainted with Art. And therefore, perhaps, it may be thought that
their striking difference, both in kind and degree, might justly call
for some further division. But admitting, as all must, a wide, nay,
almost impassable, interval between the familiar subjects of the lower
Dutch and Flemish painters, and the higher intellectual works of the
great Italian masters, we see no reason why they may not be left to
draw their own line of demarcation as to their respective provinces,
even as is every day done by actual objects; which are all equally
natural, though widely differenced as well in kind as in quality. It
is no degradation to the greatest genius to say of him and of the most
unlettered boor, that they are both men.
Besides, as a more minute division would be wholly irrelevant to the
present purpose, we shall defer the examination of their individual
differences to another occasion. In order, however, more distinctly to
exhibit their common ground of Invention, we will briefly examine a
picture by Ostade, and then compare it with one by Raffaelle, than
whom no two artists could well be imagined having less in common.
The interior of a Dutch cottage forms the scene of Ostade's work,
presenting something between a kitchen and a stable. Its principal
object is the carcass of a hog, newly washed and hung up to dry;
subordinate to which is a woman nursing an infant; the accessories,
various garments, pots, kettles, and other culinary utensils.
The bare enumeration of these coarse materials would naturally
predispose the mind of one, unacquainted with the Dutch school, to
expect any thing but pleasure; indifference, not to say disgust, would
seem to be the only possible impression from a picture composed of
such ingredients. And such, indeed, would be their effect under the
hand of any but a real Artist. Let us look into the picture and follow
Ostade's _mind_, as it leaves its impress on the several objects.
Observe how he spreads his principal light, from the suspended carcass
to the surrounding objects, moulding it, so to speak, into agreeable
shapes, here by extending it to a bit of drapery, there to an earthen
pot; then connecting it, by the flash from a brass kettle, with his
second light, the woman and child; and again turning the eye into
the dark recesses through a labyrinth of broken chairs, old baskets,
roosting fowls, and bits of straw, till a glimpse of sunshine, from
a half-open window, gleams on the eye, as it were, like an echo, and
sending it back to the principal object, which now seems to act on the
mind as the luminous source of all these diverging lights. But the
magical whole is not yet completed; the mystery of color has been
called in to the aid of light, and so subtly blends that we can hardly
separate them; at least, until their united effect has first been
felt, and after we have begun the process of cold analysis. Yet even
then we cannot long proceed before we find the charm returning; as we
pass from the blaze of light on the carcass, where all the tints of
the prism seem to be faintly subdued, we are met on its borders by the
dark harslet, glowing like rubies; then we repose awhile on the white
cap and kerchief of the nursing mother; then we are roused again by
the flickering strife of the antagonist colors on a blue jacket and
red petticoat; then the strife is softened by the low yellow of a
straw-bottomed chair; and thus with alternating excitement and repose
do we travel through the picture, till the scientific explorer loses
the analyst in the unresisting passiveness of a poetic dream. Now
all this will no doubt appear to many, if not absurd, at least
exaggerated: but not so to those who have ever felt the sorcery of
color. They, we are sure, will be the last to question the character
of the feeling because of the ingredients which worked the spell,
and, if true to themselves, they must call it poetry. Nor will they
consider it any disparagement to the all-accomplished Raffaelle to say
of Ostade that he also was an Artist.
We turn now to a work of the great Italian,--the Death of Ananias.
The scene is laid in a plain apartment, which is wholly devoid of
ornament, as became the hall of audience of the primitive Christians.
The Apostles (then eleven in number) have assembled to transact the
temporal business of the Church, and are standing together on a
slightly elevated platform, about which, in various attitudes, some
standing, others kneeling, is gathered a promiscuous assemblage of
their new converts, male and female. This quiet assembly (for we still
feel its quietness in the midst of the awful judgment) is suddenly
roused by the sudden fall of one of their brethren; some of them turn
and see him struggling in the agonies of death. A moment before he was
in the vigor of life,--as his muscular limbs still bear evidence;
but he had uttered a falsehood, and an instant after his frame is
convulsed from head to foot. Nor do we doubt for a moment as to the
awful cause: it is almost expressed in voice by those nearest to
him, and, though varied by their different temperaments, by terror,
astonishment, and submissive faith, this voice has yet but one
meaning,--"Ananias has lied to the Holy Ghost." The terrible words, as
if audible to the mind, now direct us to him who pronounced his doom,
and the singly-raised finger of the Apostle marks him the judge; yet
not of himself,--for neither his attitude, air, nor expression has
any thing in unison with the impetuous Peter,--he is now the simple,
passive, yet awful instrument of the Almighty: while another on the
right, with equal calmness, though with more severity, by his elevated
arm, as beckoning to judgment, anticipates the fate of the entering
Sapphira. Yet all is not done; lest a question remain, the Apostle on
the left confirms the judgment. No one can mistake what passes within
him; like one transfixed in adoration, his uplifted eyes seem to ray
out his soul, as if in recognition of the divine tribunal. But the
overpowering thought of Omnipotence is now tempered by the human
sympathy of his companion, whose open hands, connecting the past with
the present, seem almost to articulate, "Alas, my brother!" By this
exquisite turn, we are next brought to John, the gentle almoner of the
Church, who is dealing out their portions to the needy brethren. And
here, as most remote from the judged Ananias, whose suffering seems
not yet to have reached it, we find a spot of repose,--not to pass by,
but to linger upon, till we feel its quiet influence diffusing itself
over the whole mind; nay, till, connecting it with the beloved
Disciple, we find it leading us back through the exciting scene,
modifying even our deepest emotions with a kindred tranquillity.
This is Invention; we have not moved a step through the picture but at
the will of the Artist. He invented the chain which we have followed,
link by link, through every emotion, assimilating many into one; and
this is the secret by which he prepared us, without exciting horror,
to contemplate the struggle of mortal agony.
This too is Art; and the highest art, when thus the awful power,
without losing its character, is tempered, as it were, to our
mysterious desires. In the work of Ostade, we see the same inventive
power, no less effective, though acting through the medium of the
humblest materials.
We have now exhibited two pictures, and by two painters who may be
said to stand at opposite poles. And yet, widely apart as are their
apparent stations, they are nevertheless tenants of the same ground,
namely, actual nature; the only difference being, that one is
the sovereign of the purely physical, the other of the moral and
intellectual, while their common medium is the catholic ground of the
imagination.
We do not fear either skeptical demur or direct contradiction, when
we assert that the imagination is as much the medium of the homely
Ostade, as of the refined Raffaelle. For what is that, which has just
wrapped us as in a spell when we entered his humble cottage,--which,
as we wandered through it, invested the coarsest object with a
strange charm? Was it the _truth_ of these objects that we there
acknowledged? In part, certainly, but not simply the truth that
belongs to their originals; it was the truth of his own individual
mind superadded to that of nature, nay, clothed upon besides by his
imagination, imbuing it with all the poetic hues which float in the
opposite regions of night and day, and which only a poet can mingle
and make visible in one pervading atmosphere. To all this our own
minds, our own imaginations, respond, and we pronounce it true to
both. We have no other rule, and well may the artists of every age and
country thank the great Lawgiver that there _is no other_. The
despised _feeling_ which the schools have scouted is yet the
mother of that science of which they vainly boast. But of this we may
have more to say in another place.
We shall now ascend from the _probable_ to the _possible_,
to that branch of Invention whose proper office is from the known but
fragmentary to realize the unknown; in other words, to embody the
possible, having its sphere of action in the world of Ideas. To this
class, therefore, may properly be assigned the term _Ideal_.
And here, as being its most important scene, it will be necessary to
take a more particular view of the verifying principle, the agent, so
to speak, that gives reality to the inward, when outwardly manifested.
Now, whether we call this Human or Poetic Truth, or _inward
life_, it matters not; we know by _its effects_, (as we have
already said, and we now repeat,) that some such principle does exist,
and that it acts upon us, and in a way analogous to the operation of
that which we call truth and life in the world about us. And that the
cause of this analogy is a real affinity between the two powers seems
to us confirmed, not only _positively_ by this acknowledged
fact, but also _negatively_ by the absence of the effect above
mentioned in all those productions of the mind which we pronounce
unnatural. It is therefore in effect, or _quoad_ ourselves, both
truth and life, addressed, if we may use the expression, to that
inscrutable _instinct_ of the imagination which conducts us to
the knowledge of all invisible realities.
A distinct apprehension of the reality and of the office of this
important principle, we cannot but think, will enable us to ascertain
with some degree of precision, at least so far as relates to art,
the true limits of the Possible,--the sphere, as premised, of Ideal
Invention.
As to what some have called our _creative_ powers, we take it
for granted that no correct thinker has ever applied such expressions
literally. Strictly speaking, we can _make_ nothing: we can
only construct. But how vast a theatre is here laid open to the
constructive powers of the finite creature; where the physical eye is
permitted to travel for millions and millions of miles, while that of
the mind may, swifter than light, follow out the journey, from star to
star, till it falls back on itself with the humbling conviction that
the measureless journey is then but begun! It is needless to dwell on
the immeasurable mass of materials which a world like this may supply
to the Artist.
The very thought of its vastness darkens into wonder. Yet how much
deeper the wonder, when the created mind looks into itself, and
contemplates the power of impressing its thoughts on all things
visible; nay, of giving the likeness of life to things inanimate; and,
still more marvellous, by the mere combination of words or colors, of
evolving into shape its own Idea, till some unknown form, having no
type in the actual, is made to seem to us an organized being. When
such is the result of any unknown combination, then it is that we
achieve the Possible. And here the Realizing Principle may strictly be
said to prove itself.
That such an effect should follow a cause which we know to be purely
imaginary, supposes, as we have said, something in ourselves which
holds, of necessity, a predetermined relation to every object either
outwardly existing or projected from the mind, which we thus recognize
as true. If so, then the Possible and the Ideal are convertible terms;
having their existence, _ab initio_, in the nature of the mind.
The soundness of this inference is also supported negatively, as just
observed, by the opposite result, as in the case of those fantastic
combinations, which we sometimes meet with both in Poetry and
Painting, and which we do not hesitate to pronounce unnatural, that
is, false.
And here we would not be understood as implying the preëxistence of
all possible forms, as so many _patterns_, but only of that
constructive Power which imparts its own Truth to the unseen
_real_, and, under certain conditions, reflects the image or
semblance of its truth on all things imagined; and which must be
assumed in order to account for the phenomena presented in the
frequent coincident effect between the real and the feigned. Nor does
the absence of consciousness in particular individuals, as to this
Power in themselves, fairly affect its universality, at least
potentially: since by the same rule there would be equal ground for
denying the existence of any faculty of the mind which is of slow or
gradual developement; all that we may reasonably infer in such cases
is, that the whole mind is not yet revealed to itself. In some of the
greatest artists, the inventive powers have been of late developement;
as in Claude, and the sculptor Falconet. And can any one believe that,
while the latter was hewing his master's marble, and the former making
pastry, either of them was conscious of the sublime Ideas which
afterwards took form for the admiration of the world? When Raffaelle,
then a youth, was selected to execute the noble works which now live
on the walls of the Vatican, "he had done little or nothing," says
Reynolds, "to justify so high a trust." Nor could he have been
certain, from what he knew of himself, that he was equal to the task.
He could only hope to succeed; and his hope was no doubt founded on
his experience of the progressive developement of his mind in former
efforts; rationally concluding, that the originally seeming blank
from which had arisen so many admirable forms was still teeming with
others, that only wanted the occasion, or excitement, to come forth at
his bidding.
To return to that which, as the interpreting medium of his thoughts
and conceptions, connects the artist with his fellow-men, we remark,
that only on the ground of some self-realizing power, like what
we have termed Poetic Truth, could what we call the Ideal ever be
intelligible.
That some such power is inherent and fundamental in our nature, though
differenced in individuals by more or less activity, seems more
especially confirmed in this latter branch of the subject, where the
phenomena presented are exclusively of the Possible. Indeed, we cannot
conceive how without it there could ever be such a thing as true Art;
for what might be received as such in one age might also be overruled
in the next: as we know to be the case with most things depending on
opinion. But, happily for Art, if once established on this immutable
base, there it must rest: and rest unchanged, amidst the endless
fluctuations of manners, habits, and opinions; for its truth of
a thousand years is as the truth of yesterday. Hence the beings
described by Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton are as true to us now, as
the recent characters of Scott. Nor is it the least characteristic
of this important Truth, that the only thing needed for its full
reception is simply its presence,--being its own evidence.
How otherwise could such a being as Caliban ever be true to us? We have
never seen his race; nay, we knew not that such a creature _could_
exist, until he started upon us from the mind of Shakspeare. Yet who
ever stopped to ask if he were a real being? His existence to the mind
is instantly felt;--not as a matter of faith, but of fact, and a fact,
too, which the imagination cannot get rid of if it would, but which must
ever remain there, verifying itself, from the first to the last moment
of consciousness. From whatever point we view this singular creature,
his reality is felt. His very language, his habits, his feelings,
whenever they recur to us, are all issues from a living thing, acting
upon us, nay, forcing the mind, in some instances, even to speculate on
his nature, till it finds itself classing him in the chain of being as
the intermediate link between man and the brute. And this we do, not by
an ingenious effort, but almost by involuntary induction; for we
perceive speech and intellect, and yet without a soul. What but an
intellectual brute could have uttered the imprecations of Caliban? They
would not be natural in man, whether savage or civilized. Hear him, in
his wrath against Prospero and Miranda:--
"A wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,
Light on you both!"
The wild malignity of this curse, fierce as it is, yet wants the moral
venom, the devilish leaven, of a consenting spirit: it is all but
human.
To this we may add a similar example, from our own art, in the Puck,
or Robin Goodfellow, of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Who can look at this
exquisite little creature, seated on its toadstool cushion, and not
acknowledge its prerogative of life,--that mysterious influence which
in spite of the stubborn understanding masters the mind,--sending
it back to days long past, when care was but a dream, and its most
serious business a childish frolic? But we no longer think of
childhood as the past, still less as an abstraction; we see it
embodied before us, in all its mirth and fun and glee; and the grave
man becomes again a child, to feel as a child, and to follow the
little enchanter through all his wiles and never-ending labyrinth of
pranks. What can be real, if that is not which so takes us out of
our present selves, that the weight of years falls from us as a
garment,--that the freshness of life seems to begin anew, and the
heart and the fancy, resuming their first joyous consciousness, to
launch again into this moving world, as on a sunny sea, whose pliant
waves yield to the touch, yet, sparkling and buoyant, carry them
onward in their merry gambols? Where all the purposes of reality are
answered, if there be no philosophy in admitting, we see no wisdom in
disputing it.
Of the immutable nature of this peculiar Truth, we have a like
instance in the Farnese Hercules; the work of the Grecian sculptor
Glycon,--we had almost said his immortal offspring. Since the time of
its birth, cities and empires, even whole nations, have disappeared,
giving place to others, more or less barbarous or civilized; yet these
are as nothing to the countless revolutions which have marked
the interval in the manners, habits, and opinions of men. Is it
reasonable, then, to suppose that any thing not immutable in its
nature could possibly have withstood such continual fluctuation?
But how have all these changes affected this _visible image of
Truth_? In no wise; not a jot; and because what is _true_ is
independent of opinion: it is the same to us now as it was to the men
of the dust of antiquity. The unlearned spectator of the present day
may not, indeed, see in it the Demigod of Greece; but he can never
mistake it for a mere exaggeration of the human form; though of mortal
mould, he cannot doubt its possession of more than mortal powers; he
feels its _essential life_, for he feels before it as in the
stirring presence of a superior being.
Perhaps the attempt to give form and substance to a pure Idea was
never so perfectly accomplished as in this wonderful figure. Who has
ever seen the ocean in repose, in its awful sleep, that smooths it
like glass, yet cannot level its unfathomed swell? So seems to us the
repose of this tremendous personification of strength: the laboring
eye heaves on its slumbering sea of muscles, and trembles like a skiff
as it passes over them: but the silent intimations of the spirit
beneath at length become audible; the startled imagination hears it
in its rage, sees it in motion, and sees its resistless might in
the passive wrecks that follow the uproar. And this from a piece of
marble, cold, immovable, lifeless! Surely there is that in man, which
the senses cannot reach, nor the plumb of the understanding sound.
Let us turn now to the Apollo called Belvedere. In this supernal
being, the human form seems to have been assumed as if to make visible
the harmonious confluence of the pure ideas of grace, fleetness, and
majesty; nor do we think it too fanciful to add celestial splendor;
for such, in effect, are the thoughts which crowd, or rather rush,
into the mind on first beholding it. Who that saw it in what may be
called the place of its glory, the Gallery of Napoleon, ever thought
of it as a man, much less as a statue; but did not feel rather as if
the vision before him were of another world,--of one who had just
lighted on the earth, and with a step so ethereal, that the next
instant he would vault into the air? If I may be permitted to recall
the impression which it made on myself, I know not that I could better
describe it than as a sudden intellectual flash, filling the whole
mind with light,--and light in motion. It seemed to the mind what the
first sight of the sun is to the senses, as it emerges from the ocean;
when from a point of light the whole orb at once appears to bound from
the waters, and to dart its rays, as by a visible explosion, through
the profound of space. But, as the deified Sun, how completely is the
conception verified in the thoughts that follow the effulgent original
and its marble counterpart! Perennial youth, perennial brightness,
follow them both. Who can imagine the old age of the sun? As soon
may we think of an old Apollo. Now all this may be ascribed to the
imagination of the beholder. Granted,--yet will it not thus be
explained away. For that is the very faculty addressed by every work
of Genius,--whose nature is _suggestive_; and only when it
excites to or awakens congenial thoughts and emotions, filling the
imagination with corresponding images, does it attain its proper end.
The false and the commonplace can never do this.
It were easy to multiply similar examples; the bare mention of a
single name in modern art might conjure up a host,--the name of
Michael Angelo, the mighty sovereign of the Ideal, than whom no one
ever trod so near, yet so securely, the dizzy brink of the Impossible.
Of Unity, the fourth and last characteristic, we shall say but little;
for we know in truth little or nothing of the law which governs
it: indeed, all that we know but amounts to this,--that, wherever
existing, it presents to the mind the Idea of a Whole,--which is
itself a mystery. For what answer can we give to the question, What
is a Whole? If we reply, That which has neither more nor less than it
ought to have, we do not advance a step towards a definite notion; for
the _rule_ (if there be one) is yet undiscovered, by which
to measure either the too much or the too little. Nevertheless,
incomprehensible as it certainly is, it is what the mind will not
dispense with in a work of Art; nay, it will not concede even a right
to the name to any production where this is wanting. Nor is it a sound
objection, that we also receive pleasure from many things which seem
to us fragmentary; for instance, from actual views in Nature,--as we
shall hope to show in another place. It is sufficient at present,
that, in relation to Art, the law of the imagination demands a whole;
in order to which not a single part must be felt to be wanting; all
must be there, however imperfectly rendered; nay, such is the craving
of this active faculty, that, be they but mere hints, it will often
fill them out to the desired end; the only condition being, that the
part hinted be founded in truth. It is well known to artists, that a
sketch, consisting of little more than hints, will frequently produce
the desired effect, and by the same means,--the hints being true so
far as expressed, and without an hiatus. But let the artist attempt to
_finish_ his sketch, that is, to fill out the parts, and suppose
him deficient in the necessary skill, the consequence must be, that
the true hints, becoming transformed to elaborate falsehoods, will
be all at variance, while the revolted imagination turns away with
disgust. Nor is this a thing of rare occurrence: indeed, he is a most
fortunate artist, who has never had to deplore a well-hinted whole
thus reduced to fragments.
These are facts; from which we may learn, that with less than a whole,
either already wrought, or so indicated that the excited imagination
can of itself complete it, no genuine response will ever be given to
any production of man. And we learn from it also this twofold truth;
first, that the Idea of a Whole contains in itself a preëxisting law;
and, secondly, that Art, the peculiar product of the Imagination, is
one of its true and predetermined ends.
As to its practical application, it were fruitless to speculate. It
applies itself, even as truth, both in action and reaction, verifying
itself: and our minds submit, as if it had said, There is nothing
wanting; so, in the converse, its dictum is absolute when it announces
a deficiency.
To return to the objection, that we often receive pleasure from many
things in Nature which seem to us fragmentary, we observe, that nothing in
Nature can be fragmentary, except in the seeming, and then, too, to the
understanding only,--to the feelings never; for a grain of sand, no less
than a planet, being an essential part of that mighty whole which we call
the universe, cannot be separated from the Idea of the world without a
positive act of the reflective faculties, an act of volition; but until
then even a grain of sand cannot cease to imply it. To the mere
understanding, indeed, even the greatest extent of actual objects which
the finite creature can possibly imagine must ever fall short of the vast
works of the Creator. Yet we nevertheless can, and do, apprehend the
existence of the universe. Now we would ask here, whether the influence of
a _real_,--and the epithet here is not unimportant,--whether the influence
of a real Whole is at no time felt without an act of consciousness, that
is, without thinking of a whole. Is this impossible? Is it altogether out
of experience? We have already shown (as we think) that no _unmodified
copy_ of actual objects, whether single or multifarious, ever satisfies
the imagination,--which imperatively demands a something more, or at least
different. And yet we often find that the very objects from which these
copies are made _do_ satisfy us. How and why is this? A question more
easily put than answered. We may suggest, however, what appears to us a
clew, that in abler hands may possibly lead to its solution; namely, the
fact, that, among the innumerable emotions of a pleasurable kind derived
from the actual, there is not one, perhaps, which is strictly confined to
the objects before us, and which we do not, either directly or indirectly,
refer to something beyond and not present. Now have we at all times a
distinct consciousness of the things referred to? Are they not rather more
often vague, and only indicated in some _undefined_ feeling? Nay, is its
source more intelligible where the feeling is more definite, when taking
the form of a sense of harmony, as from something that diffuses, yet
deepens, unbroken in its progress through endless variations, the melody
as it were of the pleasurable object? Who has never felt, under certain
circumstances, an expansion of the heart, an elevation of mind, nay, a
striving of the whole being to pass its limited bounds, for which he could
find no adequate solution in the objects around him,--the apparent cause?
Or who can account for every mood that thralls him,--at times like one
entranced in a dream by airs from Paradise,--at other times steeped in
darkness, when the spirit of discord seems to marshal his every thought,
one against another?
Whether it be that the Living Principle, which permeates all things
throughout the physical world, cannot be touched in a single point
without conducting to its centre, its source, and confluence, thus
giving by a part, though obscurely and indefinitely, a sense of the
whole,--we know not. But this we may venture to assert, and on no
improbable ground,--that a ray of light is not more continuously
linked in its luminous particles than our moral being with the
whole moral universe. If this be so, may it not give us, in a faint
shadowing at least, some intimation of the many real, though unknown
relations, which everywhere surround and bear upon us? In the deeper
emotions, we have, sometimes, what seems to us a fearful proof of it.
But let us look at it negatively; and suppose a case where this chain
is broken,--of a human being who is thus cut off from all possible
sympathies, and shut up, as it were, in the hopeless solitude of
his own mind. What is this horrible avulsion, this impenetrable
self-imprisonment, but the appalling state of _despair?_ And what
if we should see it realized in some forsaken outcast, and hear his
forlorn cry, "Alone! alone!" while to his living spirit that single
word is all that is left him to fill the blank of space? In such a
state, the very proudest autocrat would yearn for the sympathy of the
veriest wretch.
It would seem, then, since this living cement which is diffused
through nature, binding all things in one, so that no part can be
contemplated that does not, of necessity, even though unconsciously to
us, act on the mind with reference to the whole,--since this, as we
find, cannot be transferred to any copy of the actual, it must needs
follow, if we would imitate Nature in its true effects, that recourse
must be had to another, though similar principle, which shall so
pervade our production as to satisfy the mind with an efficient
equivalent. Now, in order to this there are two conditions required:
first, the personal modification, (already discussed) of every
separate part,--which may be considered as its proper life; and,
secondly, the uniting of the parts by such an interdependence that
they shall appear to us as essential, one to another, and all to each.
When this is done, the result is a whole. But how do we obtain
this mutual dependence? We refer the questioner to the law of
Harmony,--that mysterious power, which is only apprehended by its
imperative effect.
But, be the above as it may, we know it to be a fact, that, whilst
nothing in Nature ever affects us as fragmentary, no unmodified copy
of her by man is ever felt by us as otherwise.
We have thus--and, we trust, on no fanciful ground--endeavoured to
establish the real and distinctive character of Art. And, if our
argument be admitted, it will be found to have brought us to the
following conclusions:--first, that the true ground of all originality
lies in the _individualizing law_, that is, in that modifying
power, which causes the difference between man and man as to their
mental impressions; secondly, that only in a _true_ reproduction
consists its evidence; thirdly, that in the involuntary response from
other minds lies the truth of the evidence; fourthly, that in order
to this response there must therefore exist some universal kindred
principle, which is essential to the human mind, though widely
differenced in the degree of its activity in different individuals;
and finally, that this principle, which we have here denominated
Human or Poetic Truth, being independent both of the will and of the
reflective faculties, is in its nature _imperative_, to affirm
or deny, in relation to every production pretending to Art, from the
simple imitation of the actual to the probable, and from the probable
to the possible;--in one word, that the several characteristics,
Originality, Poetic Truth, Invention, each imply a something not
inherent in the objects imitated, but which must emanate alone from
the mind of the Artist.
And here it may be well to notice an apparent objection, that will
probably occur to many, especially among painters. How, then, they may
ask, if the principle in question be universal and imperative, do we
account for the mistakes which even great Artists have sometimes made
as to the realizing of their conceptions? We hope to show, that, so
far from opposing, the very fact on which the objection is grounded
will be found, on the contrary, to confirm our doctrine. Were such
mistakes uniformly permanent, they might, perhaps, have a rational
weight; but that this is not the case is clearly evident from the
additional fact of the change in the Artist's judgment, which almost
invariably follows any considerable interval of time. Nay, should
a case occur where a similar mistake is never rectified,--which is
hardly probable,--we might well consider it as one of those exceptions
that prove the rule,--of which we have abundant examples in other
relations, where a true principle is so feebly developed as to be
virtually excluded from the sphere of consciousness, or, at least,
where its imperfect activity is for all practical purposes a mere
nullity. But, without supposing any mental weakness, the case may
be resolved by the no less formidable obstacle of a too inveterate
memory: and there have been such,--where a thought or an image once
impressed is never erased. In Art it is certainly an advantage to be
able sometimes to forget. Nor is this a new notion; for Horace, it
seems, must have had the same, or he would hardly have recommended so
long a time as nine years for the revision of a poem. That Titian
also was not unaware of the advantage of forgetting is recorded by
Boschini, who relates, that, during the progress of a work, he was
in the habit of occasionally turning it to the wall, until it had
somewhat faded from his memory, so that, on resuming his labor, he
might see with fresh eyes; when (to use his expression) he would
criticize the picture with as much severity as his worst enemy. If,
instead of the picture on the canvas, Boschini had referred to that in
his mind, as what Titian sought to forget, he would have been, as
we think, more correct. This practice is not uncommon with Artists,
though few, perhaps, are aware of its real object.
It has doubtless the appearance of a singular anomaly in the judgment,
that it should not always be as correct in relation to our own works
as to those of another. Yet nothing is more common than perfect truth
in the one case, and complete delusion in the other. Our surprise,
however, would be sensibly diminished, if we considered that the
reasoning or reflective faculties have nothing to do with either case.
It is the Principle of which we have been speaking, the life, or truth
within, answering to the life, or rather its sign, before us, that
here sits in judgment. Still the question remains unanswered; and
again we are asked, Why is it that our own works do not always respond
with equal veracity? Simply because we do not always _see_
them,--that is, as they are,--but, looking as it were _through
them_, see only their originals in the mind; the mind here acting,
instead of being acted upon. And thus it is, that an Artist may
suppose his conception realized, while that which gave life to it in
his mind is outwardly wanting. But let time erase, as we know it often
does, the mental image, and its embodied representative will then
appear to its author as it is,--true or false. There is one case,
however, where the effect cannot deceive; namely, where it comes upon
us as from a foreign source; where our own seems no longer ours. This,
indeed, is rare; and powerful must be the pictured Truth, that, as
soon as embodied, shall thus displace its own original.
Nor does it in any wise affect the essential nature of the Principle
in question, or that of the other Characteristics, that the effect
which follows is not always of a pleasurable kind; it may even be
disagreeable. What we contend for is simply its _reality_; the
character of the perception, like that of every other truth, depending
on the individual character of the percipient. The common truth of
existence in a living person, for instance, may be to us either a
matter of interest or indifference, nay, even of disgust. So also may
it be with what is true in Art. Temperament, ignorance, cultivation,
vulgarity, and refinement have all, in a greater or less degree, an
influence in our impressions; so that any reality may be to us either
an offence or a pleasure, yet still a reality. In Art, as in Nature,
the True is imperative, and must be _felt_, even where a timid, a
proud, or a selfish motive refuses to acknowledge it.
These last remarks very naturally lead us to another subject, and one
of no minor importance; we mean, the education of an Artist; on this,
however, we shall at present add but a few words. We use the word
_education_ in its widest sense, as involving not only the growth
and expansion of the intellect, but a corresponding developement of
the moral being; for the wisdom of the intellect is of little worth,
if it be not in harmony with the higher spiritual truth. Nor will a
moderate, incidental cultivation suffice to him who would become a
great Artist. He must sound no less than the full depths of his being
ere he is fitted for his calling; a calling in its very condition
lofty, demanding an agent by whom, from the actual, living world, is
to be wrought an imagined consistent world of Art,--not fantastic,
or objectless, but having a purpose, and that purpose, in all its
figments, a distinct relation to man's nature, and all that pertains
to it, from the humblest emotion to the highest aspiration; the circle
that bounds it being that only which bounds his spirit,--even the
confines of that higher world, where ideal glimpses of angelic forms
are sometimes permitted to his sublimated vision. Art may, in truth,
be called the _human world_; for it is so far the work of man,
that his beneficent Creator has especially endowed him with the powers
to construct it; and, if so, surely not for his mere amusement, but
as a part (small though it be) of that mighty plan which the Infinite
Wisdom has ordained for the evolution of the human spirit; whereby is
intended, not alone the enlargement of his sphere of pleasure, but of
his higher capacities of adoration;--as if, in the gift, he had said
unto man, Thou shalt know me by the powers I have given thee. The
calling of an Artist, then, is one of no common responsibility; and it
well becomes him to consider at the threshold, whether he shall assume
it for high and noble purposes, or for the low and licentious.
Form.
The subject proposed for the following discourse is the Human Form; a
subject, perhaps, of all others connected with Art, the most obscured
by vague theories. It is one, at least, of such acknowledged
difficulty as to constrain the writer to confess, that he enters
upon it with more distrust than hope of success. Should he succeed,
however, in disencumbering this perplexed theme of some of its useless
dogmas, it will be quite as much as he has allowed himself to expect.
The object, therefore, of the present attempt will be to show, first,
that the notion of one or more standard Forms, which shall in all
cases serve as exemplars, is essentially false, and of impracticable
application for any true purpose of Art; secondly, that the only
approach to Science, which the subject admits, is in a few general
rules relating to Stature, and these, too, serving rather as
convenient _expedients_ than exact guides, inasmuch as, in most
cases, they allow of indefinite variations; and, thirdly, that
the only efficient Rule must be found in the Artist's mind,--in
those intuitive Powers, which are above, and beyond, both the senses
and the understanding; which, nevertheless, are so far from precluding
knowledge, as, on the contrary, to require, as their effective
condition, the widest intimacy with the things external,--without
which their very existence must remain unknown to the Artist himself.
Supposing, then, certain standard Forms to have been admitted, it may
not be amiss to take a brief view of the nature of the Being to whom
they are intended to be applied; and to consider them more especially
as auxiliaries to the Artist.
In the first place, we observe, that the purpose of Art is not to
represent any given number of men, but the Human Race; and so that the
representation shall affect us, not indeed as living to the senses,
but as true to the mind. In order to this, there must be _all_ in
the imitation (though it be but hinted) which the mind will recognize
as true to the human being: hence the first business of the Artist is
to become acquainted with his subject in all its properties. He then
naturally inquires, what is its general characteristic; and his own
consciousness informs him, that, besides an animal nature, there is
also a moral intelligence, and that they together form the man. This
important truism (we say important, for it seems to have been
not seldom overlooked) makes the foundation of all his future
observations; nor can he advance a step without continual reference
to this double nature. We find him accordingly in the daily habit of
mentally distinguishing this person from that, as a moral being, and
of assigning to each a separate character; and this not voluntarily,
but simply because he cannot avoid it. Yet, by what does he presume
to judge of strangers? He will probably answer, By their general
exterior. And what is the inference? There can be but one; namely,
that there must be--at least to him--some efficient correspondence
between the physical and the moral. This is so plain, that the wonder
is, how it ever came to be doubted. Nor is it directly denied, except
by those who from habitual disgust reject the guesswork of the various
pretenders to scientific systems; yet even these, no less than others,
do practically admit it in their common intercourse with the world.
And it cannot be otherwise; for what the Creator has joined must have
some affinity, although the palpable signs may elude our cognizance.
And that they do elude it, except perhaps in a very slight degree,
is actually the case, as is well proved by the signal failure of all
attempts to reduce them to a science; for neither diagram nor axiom
has ever yet corrected an instinctive impression. But man does not
live by science; he feels, acts, and judges right in a thousand things
without the consciousness of any rule by which he so feels, acts, or
judges. And, happily for him, he has a surer guide than human science
in that unknown Power within him,--without which he had been without
knowledge. But of this we shall have occasion to speak again in
another part of our discourse.
Though the medium through which the soul acts be, as we have said, elusive
to the senses,--in so far as to be irreducible to any distinct form,--it
is not therefore the less real, as every one may verify by his own
experience; and, though seemingly invisible, it must nevertheless,
constituted as we are, act through the physical, and a physical medium
expressly constructed for its peculiar action; nay, it does this
continually, without our confounding for a moment the soul with its
instrument. Who can look into the human eye, and doubt of an influence not
of the body? The form and color leave but a momentary impression, or, if
we remember them, it is only as we remember the glass through which we
have read the dark problems of the sky. But in this mysterious organ we
see not even the signs of its mystery. We see, in truth, nothing; for what
is there has neither form, nor symbol, nor any thing reducible to a
sensuous distinctness; and yet who can look into it, and not be conscious
of a real though invisible presence? In the eye of a brute, we see only a
part of the animal; it gives us little beyond the palpable outward; at
most, it is but the focal point of its fierce, or gentle, affectionate, or
timorous character,--the character of the species, But in man, neither
gentleness nor fierceness can be more than as relative conditions,--the
outward moods of his unseen spirit; while the spirit itself, that daily
and hourly sends forth its good and evil, to take shape from the body,
still sits in darkness. Yet have we that which can surely reach it; even
our own spirit. By this it is that we can enter into another's soul, sound
its very depths, and bring up his dark thoughts, nay, place them before
him till he starts at himself; and more,--it is by this we _know_ that
even the tangible, audible, visible world is not more real than a
spiritual intercourse. And yet without the physical organ who can hold it?
We can never indeed understand, but we may not doubt, that which has its
power of proof in a single act of consciousness. Nay, we may add that we
cannot even conceive of a soul without a correlative form,--though it be
in the abstract; and _vice versâ_.
For, among the many impossibilities, it is not the least to look upon
a living human form as a thing; in its pictured copies, as already
shown in a former discourse, it may be a thing, and a beautiful thing;
but the moment we conceive of it as living, if it show not a soul, we
give it one by a moral necessity; and according to the outward will be
the spirit with which we endow it. No poetic being, supposed of our
species, ever lived to the imagination without some indication of the
moral; it is the breath of its life: and this is also true in the
converse; if there be but a hint of it, it will instantly clothe
itself in a human shape; for the mind cannot separate them. In the
whole range of the poetic creations of the great master of truth,--we
need hardly say Shakspeare,--not an instance can be found where this
condition of life is ever wanting; his men and women all have souls.
So, too, when he peoples the air, though he describe no form, he never
leaves these creatures of the brain without a shape, for he will
sometimes, by a single touch of the moral, enable us to supply one.
Of this we have a striking instance in one of his most unsubstantial
creations, the "delicate Ariel." Not an allusion to its shape or
figure is made throughout the play; yet we assign it a form on its
very first entrance, as soon as Prospero speaks of its refusing to
comply with the" abhorred commands" of the witch, Sycorax. And again,
in the fifth act, when Ariel, after recounting the sufferings of the
wretched usurper and his followers, gently adds,--
"Your charm so strongly works them,
That, if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender."