AE  ST 1I ETICS;
THE SCIENCE OF BEAUTY.
BY JOHN BASCOM,
PROFESBOR IN WILLIAMS COLLEGE
NEW YORK AND CHICAGO:
WOOLWORTH, AINSWORTH, & CO.
I8 7 2.
OR, 
l'nterod ac(rn(rlg to Act of (ongress, in the year 1871, by
WOOLVWOPTHI, AINSWORPTTHl, & CO.,
In thie office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
PREFACE.
THE following Lectures were written with a desire
to supply the want of an exclusive and comnpact trea
tise on thle principles of taste.
So  many  principles  have  been  established in  the
department  of beauty, so much  of the  mind's action
in this direction is understood, as to entitle the subject to distinct consideration; and, at the risk of
some  offence,  we  have ventured  to  style our work
AEsthletics; or, Thlle Science of Beauty.
It has been  our aim  to combine and present in a
systematic form  tlhose facts and principles which  constitute the department  of taste, and, as far as may
be, to make good its claim  to the rank  of a distinct
science.   In so doing, we  have  striven to render a
service to the general reader, and yet more to this
branch of instruction.
The present edition is corrected and enlarged as the
result of furtiher thought, and new opportunities ()of observation. The discussion here entered on cannot take the
place of a critical and protracted consideration of works of 
PREF'ACE.
fine art, in each of its departments, but will assist and
quicken the mind in this most pleasant, practical labor.
Its enjoymient will be much more complete, and its colnclusions much more just, when aided by even a partial
insight into the aims and resources of art.  A  discriminating and thus thorough appreciation of the beauties of
nature and art is at once an exalted and most agreeable
form of mental activity, and will immediately and abundantly repay the attention we devote to it.  To aid the
ordinary student of the beauties of the external and ideal
worlds is our object, and we accept with satisfaction the
success thus far of our work.
;"I' ir
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CONTENTS.
LECTURE I.
PAGJ
MIOTIV-ES FOP THE CULTIVATION OF TASTE. - DEFINI[IONS. - DI
VISION OF SUBJECT.  BEAUTY, SIMPLE AND PRIMARY..  I
LECTURE II.
BEAUTY LIES IN THE EXPRESSION. - ILLUSTRATED AND ESTABLISHED.
EXI'PRESSION DEFINED IN THE INORGANIC AND ORGAINIC WORLDS.
(CAUSES OF UC-LI-NESS....
LECTURE III.
EXPRPESSI(* DEFINED IN MAN, - EFFECT OF SIN ON OUR JUDGMENTS
OF HUMAN BEAUTY. -BEFLEX INFLUENCE OF MAN ON NATURE.
LECTURE IV.
SECTND CONDITION OF BEAUJTY, UNITY. - UNITY AND VARIETY
DEFINED, ILLUSTRATED. - GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY - RELA TIVE AND ABSOLUTE BEAUTY......
LECTURE V.
THIRD CONDITIO:N, TRUTH. - IMITATIONS. - TRUTH DEFINED. - DE PE\DENCE OF ART ON NATURE. - THE IDEAL...e
LECTURE VI.
SYMBOLS DF EXPRESSIO()N. - FORM. - COLOR. - LIGHT AND SHADE. -
M{OTIO. - SOUND........*, 
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46
62
77 
CONTENTS.
LECTURE VII.
FACULTY THROUGH WHICH BEAUTY IS REACHED. - STANDARD OF
TASTE.- WHY DISAGREEMIENTS. - TASTE, HOW CULTIVATED. -
THROUGH KNOWLEDGE, THROUGH PURITY.- IMAGINATION AND
FANCY.............   95
LECTURE VIII.
PRINCIPLES CONTROLLING BEAUTY. -SUBORDINATION OF BEAUTY. -
INCIDENTAL TO REAL END.- ORNAIMENT.- CONGRUITY AND PRO PRIETY.- NUDE ART. - REASONS WHY CONDEMNINED... 111
LECTURE IX.
ECONOIMY OF BEAUTY.- PRINCIPLES INVOLVED.- DIGNITY OF BEAU TY. - EFFECT ON CHOICE OF THEMIES. - ON TREATMENT OF
THEMIES. - SUMMATION......... 130
LECTURE X
$
THINGS WHICH MISLEAD TASTE. - NOVELTY. - NATURE OF. - RE SEMIBLANCE. - VALUE OF. - ASSOCIATION. - EFFECT ON JUDGMENT.
- HABIT.- CUSTOM. - IMPORTANCE OF THEIR INFLUENCE.. 145
LECTURE XI.
LANDSCAPE GARDENING. - RELATIVE RANK OF THE ARTS. - RIGHT
OF CRITICISM AND ITS LIMIT.- DIMENSIONS OF GARDEN.- OBJECT
OF GARDENING. - ITS RESOURCES. - PLANTS. - TREES. - PLAT. -
PLANTATION.- FEATURES WITHIN THE GARDEN.- WITHOUT THE
GARDEN. - SPACES.- WALKS AND AVENUES. - ENCLOSURES AR CHITECTURAL AIDS. - POWERS DISCIPLIINED.... 161
LECTURE XII.
ARCHITECTURE. - ITS OBJECT AS A FINE ART.- ITS THREE OFFICES.
-SKILL AND ORNAMENT. - RESOURCES OF THE ARCIIITECT. -
MATERIALS:  STONE, BRICK, WOOD, IRON. - MEMBERS:  WALL,
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CONTENTS.
BASE, CORNICE, COLUMN, APERTURES, ROOF, PITCH, BALUSTRADE,
DOME............. 183
LECTURE XIII.
ARCHITECTURE. - PROTECTIVE ARCHITECTURE. - DWELLINGS. -
FARMI-HOUSE. - COTTAGE. - VILLA. - THINGS AFFECTING DWELL INGS. - CHURCHES. - THEIR CHARACTER. - PUBLIC BUILDINGS. -
CO.MEmORATIVE ARCHITECTURE.- 0RNAMENT.- STYLES... 220
LECTURE XIV.
SCULPTURE. - VALUE OF THE SENTIMENT PRESENTED. - CHOICE OF
SUBJECTS.- HISTORIICAL SUBJECTS.- MAN.- RANGE OF SCULP TURE. - REPOSE. -M IATERIAL. - PIJRE FOIRM ITS ONLY SYMBOL.
- TRUTHS WHICH THIS ILLUSTRATES.......  -
LECTURE XV.
PAINTING. - TRUTH. - RIGHT. - DIGNITY. - MANNER OF T
MENT. -  THEMES. - MAN.- NATURE.- SYMBOLS. - COL
LIGHT. - POWERS REQUISITE IN PAINTERS...
LECTURE XVI.
POETRY. - ITS NATURE. -RHYTHM. - KINDS OF VERSE. - FIELD
OF POETRY. - CLASSIFICATION. - HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT. METHOD OF TREATMENT. - CHOICE OF SUBJECTS. - TRUTH. -
SUGGESTION.................... 251
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.. 236
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1V 
LECTURES ON TASTE.
LECTURE I.
MOTIVES FOR THE CULTIVATION  OF TASTE. - DIVISION OF
SUBJECT. -NATURE OF BEAUTY.
THERE is a pleasure connected with every form of
humaln  action, and  with  almost  every  lhealthy  act,
whetier it be physical, intellectual, or moral.   In the
inltensity and value of these pleasures  there is great
variety.  On  the one hand, there is the glow of a
pllysical system, rapid and perfect in its involuntary
fiunctions, which, if not always itself a distinct and definalle enjoyment, is yet the condition and measure
of many enjoyments; and, onil the other, tl-he commallding pleasure of right action, which, in its imperial nature, suffers no comparison or valuation of itself with
other pleasures.  But not only has pleasure been made
the attendant and additional reward of healthy action,
thoughl that action have  sole reference to utility or
dutty, not only do  the plhysical and the mental machiinery include wit]in them something of the play of
mnsic, blut a perception has been given 11us, chief among
whose objects is the high and peculiar enjoyment wllich
it imparts, - the perception of beauty.
Tile fact that this perception is one of the coiistita.
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LECTURE I.
ants of our nature - a universal and most characteristic element of manhood - would seem to be an adequate reason why we should investigate it, and the
principles which control its action, and thus see its
relations to character. Without adding to other acquisitions this acquisition also, we cannot fully meet
thie injuinction, Know thyself; nor lay broad the foundations of knowledge in an understanding of that illtellect which is at once the recipient and interpreter
of all knowledge; nor work into the structure of perfect character that full variety of materials and complement of forces which, in the conception of its Great
Architect, were designed to make it the sanctuary at
once of strength and beauty.  The nature and relations
of the perception itself, however, furnish us additionial
reasons.
A most obvious consideration ilnvitilng us to this department is the enjoyment which a cultivated taste is
able to impart. As long as the pursuit of pleasure is
so leading a trait of man's chlaracter, is so prominent
among the right incentives to effort, we surely need
no other miotive or justification of an action than that
it repays us by al; adequate and innocent pleasure.
The gift of a perception, witlh so obvious and primary
a reference to the enjoymelnt thereby to be conferred,
marks the Creator's estimate of happiness, and severely
rebukes the indolence which suffers a great faculty to
become weak by inaction, and sink from its function
and  from the circle of powers.   The peculiar  and
abundant pleasures designed to be conferred upon us
in this intuition claim our grateful acceptance.
The very nature, however, of the gratification afforded, and its relation to other gratifications, are ad
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IN'D UCEMENTS.
ditioial motives for its pursuit.  It does not belong
to our animal nature, neither to the appetites or passions, but, as a higher and more spiritual enjoyment,
call be thrown into the balance against these, and unite
its forces with those other perceptions which release us
from the sensuous and passionate.   The love of the
beautiful is often a powerful auxiliary of virtue,  by
engaging the faculties in an ennobling form of activity, thus at once preoccupying the ground against vicious inclinations, and bringing the mind nearer to the
yet higher intuitions and enjoyments of right action.
Ini the contest between the spiritual and physical which
is waged in every man's nature, beauty arrays itself onI
the side of the former, and may often fiurishl that intellectual enjoyment by which the mind is first brought
within the calmer, more profound and abiding pleasures which belong to the strictly rational intuitions.
Beauty is often the door-keeper to those charmed precilcts within which are trutll and right.
A fourth reasonii why we should render ourselves
susceptible to the impulses whiclh arise from a perception of beauty is, that they lend themselves as additional inducements to our best actions in a great variety of directions. The several sciences offer for their
pursuit their own appropriate rewards; but not unfrequeitly do we find a most' grateful gratuity in the new
beauties which they reveal.  Beauty is so inextricably
interwoven withl truth, that, when seeking the last, we
yet inevitably find the first, and with it a new reward
and motive of effort. So also is it in the mechanical
labors of life. Our work lies amid nature and natural
forces, and we cannot with a delicate intuition move
in that great gallery of the germs, suggestions, studies,
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LECTURE'.
and models of all great work, without finding eacll step
a pleasure.  Art may also, in its lligher forms, become
fine art, and in all its forms call into requisition tlhe
rudiments of beautiftul expression, iii its lihes and outlines and surfaces.  Thus may pleasure still runl through
all the wearier passages of life, the love of the beautiful
come  in as a  most welc(ome  impulse, and save our
duties from becomi,)g wliolly mechanical, an irksome
routine, by giving to tlem  tlhe elasticity of a rational
seintiment.  Beauty, tlhei, is not only witl the intellectnal as against the plysical, h)ut is ai ally iii all worthy
effort, ftirnisliing a inew motive to do, and a new satisfactioi in that whlich is well donie.
Allied to what has b)een presented as motives for the
cultivation of taste, and yet from its character and importance deserving distinct notice, is tlhe coinection of
beauty witll ri,hlt, and of discipline of tihontlit in olie
department with that in the otler.  The metlods  of
reasoilug  employe(  iii thle  discuIssioi  of  these two
classes of questions are similar.   Tills will  hereafter
appear more plainily.   AVWe  must for tlle present rest
iii the assertion, that, alike in ethics and esthetics, we
are employed with an intuition of tle reason, and this,
not absolute anid uicelhageablle, but varying withl all
the new circumstances and relations of eaclh particular
case.  The reasoning processes by wlich we trace the
immediate influences and remoter results of action, or
inqtire into its motives and impulses, aid tltis make
ready to pronounce the judgment of riglit or wrong, are
allied to those by which we trace the uses, the interior
character, immediate connections, and distant relations
of an object, aid are thus able to decide uponI it, as
beautiful or deformed.  This similarity in the two iutuii
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INDUCEM,IENTS.
tions, and in the considerations and reasoning by which
the way is prepared for their judgments, unites them
closely in their culture.
Beauty also presents a law to action, weaker and
more wavering, it is true, than the law of morals, yet
one whose observance is a perpetual discipline of the
higher nature, -  a perpetual imperative restilig onI the
visible life. Beauty, indeed, by anll action of thle perverted mind and heart, may at this point be brought in
conflict with the righlt, and displace the higher law of
duty with its own lower law of taste.  A false analysis
may resolve rilght into a certain fitness, and give to
ethics no lhiglher obligation than that imposed  by tlle
pleasures of good imanniers and good art.  But this very
fact, that thle one law is sometimes made to displace or
obscure thle oftler, only indicates their parallelism, and
that beauty, tliougli at a wide remove belleath, yet pursues, inll its influence oil character, the same direction as
the right.  It will iot often be found that the weaker
law is strictly and faitlifutlly applied in all tlhat pertains
to daily action, without some  respect and obedience
directly rendered to tlhe law of duty.  The observalnce
of either of these rules of actions will ever constitute a
preparation for the oblservanlce of tle other.
MIore thlan this, it is impossible that beauty, in its
higher forms and nobler possessions, those of claracter,
should be understood, muclh less correctly apprehlended,
without a most thorough knowledge and hearty appreciation of the great law of character,      the riglht.  It is
this which gives purpose and form, and thus beauty, to
action.  It is the vital shlaping force of the moral world.
and the beauties of that world can no more be  understood without its recognition, than those of thle vegetable
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LECTURE I.
and animal kingdoms without a recognition of the liv
ing principles which rule therein. Man must com.
pletely drop out of that art which has not schooled itself
in his moral nature, since in the right utterance of this
lies his beauty. A licentious art cannot be a correct
art; no correct art can degrade its object.
Nor would an art without ethics simply lose its prime
figure, man, but must be sorely crippled in the poor
remainder of its subjects. Architecture ill many of its
forms has most immediate relation to worship; and
surely nature, ill her right representation, most directly
utters moral and divine attributes, and addresses our
religious nature.  Art, therefore, not only prepares the
way for moral culture; it itself is, and demands, as an
indispensable antecedent, that culture.
The amount and kind of intellectual activity called
forth commend to us the study and discipline of that
part of our nature which finds play inii the beautiful.
Nor is the lower motive, if we still need it, of the cash
value of suchl knowledge altogether  wanting.   Good
taste, iii its restricted and rudimental forms, as a chastened fancy, will find more  and more profitable  employmelt in all the mechanical arts, while  a frugal
elegance in domestic architecture ald grounds is to
become a very essential element of value. No progress
can be achieved without enhancing at every step the
price of all tasteful products.
Having seen some of the advantages which attach to
a study of the perception and laws of beauty, our next
task will be to define some of the terms most frequently
employed in this connection, and mark in outtliniie the
ground before us. All the definition that we now require, or are yet prepared to give, of beauty, is that
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DEFINITION OF TERMS.
it is a certain quality of thiings and acts. Taste is that
power of mind by which we perceive this quality. Taste
has come to be intimately associated with criticism, and
the last is often regarded as only the application of
the first to the various products of art. Beauty, though
a leading, is not the exclusive, object even of the fine
arts; there may, therefore, be qualities in many productions besides that of beauty which come utinder the
discussion of criticism.
Criticism, then, though  finding  a most important
criterion of excellence in the decisions of taste, is, ill
the rules and principles of its judgments, possessed of
a much wider range than that of any single department. It is the application to products of the tests
of excellence in any or all directions.
2Esthletics and the science of beauty may be regarded
as interchangeable expressions.   All that pertains to
the faculty taste, on the one hand, and the object beauty,
on the other, to the action of the one or the principles
determining the presence of the other; all that constituttes knowledge, science in this department, may be
regarded as included in the term aesthetics.
In this use, the word lhas passed beyond its etymology, and no longer has reference to sensation, nor even
exclusive reference to the quality of beauty in sensible
objects, but equally includes that quality whether the
attendant of sensations or intellections.   The original
force of the word only serves to mark the great avenue
through which beauty has entered the mind, -the field
which it has most habitually and widely occupied. All
our later progress must serve to define esthetics by
shlowiing the extent and kind of knowledge which belong to it as a science.
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LECTURE I.
We first need to determine, and, as far as may be,
to define, the quality beauty, that we may apprehend
tlhe object to which every discussion will pertaili.  Since
beauty has  iio absolute  existence, but only exists  as
the quality or attribute of objects, we sliall inquire to
what obljecets it belongs, and what it is in those objects
whlich gives it expression.  As tlhe complement of tlis
inquiry, we shlall wish to know thle orgali, the facllty,
thlrotlg  which  this quality is received  by  us.  Later
we  shiall discuss  the principles wlich  determinille  its
prese-,nce or absence, and, as a practical application of
the truitlis so establislhed, we shlall treat briefly of those
arts, ternmed fine arts, in which thle principles of astliet
ics find fullest emrployment.
Beauty  is tle sole object of aesthetics.   No  other
quality, save as it is either productive of this or tends
to destroy it, will occupy our attentioni.  Beaiity stands
to sesthlletics in the same relation as the notionI of right
to ethics: it constitutes the department; and,  however great the variety of modifying circumstances, inflienices, and relations to be considered, these all are
considered in  their bearings onl beauty; the decision
of every questioln is at this point.
The ingenuity, utility, and novelty of ot;jects may enlhance the interest we feel in them, or the value we put
upon them; but these and kindred qualities need ever
to be distinguished from  beauty, however  iltinatcly
beauty may, in particular cases, be associated witlh themn.
I'i defining beauty, we say of it, first, tlat it is a siunple and  primary quality.  It is iulcompoiunded.   No
two or three qualities inll any method present can by
their combined  effects  compass it.   No  analysis  can
resolve it into otlher perceptions, but tlhere always ie
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NOTION OF BEAUTY SIMPLE.
mains something unresolved and unexplained, which is
beauty.  This is proved by the fact, tlhat tllhe most successful of these resolutions, while they hit on qualities
firequently  zoncomitalnt  with  beauty,  and  intimately
related to it, are never able to go beyond this compaliiolshlip, and show the identity of those qualities witll
beauty, whenever  and  wlierever  found.   Unity and
variety are qualities usually, I think always, in some
degree present in beautiful objects.   But thlougl  this
presence may slow them to be a condition for tlhe existcice of beauty, it does not show tlhem to be its sylioinyme or equivalent.  In fact, we find that these qualities'exist in very maiy tlings wlhich have 110no beauty.
Their ra,nge  may include the field under discussion,
but it certainly includes much more, and thereby shows
that these qualities do not produce the distinguishing
and peculiar effects of wstlietics.  Thus is it with every
combilnationl of qualities into which we seek to analyze
beauty.  Either phenomena whlich should be included
are left iunexplained, or plieiiomeiila which do not beloing to the department are taken in by thle theory.
These analyses, either by doiiig too much or too little,
indicate that the precise thing to be done has not been
done by them, and only prove  a more or less general
companlionship, and not an identity of qualities.  It is
one thinig to show tlat certaii tlinigs, evein, always accompany beauty, and quite another to show that these
always and everywhere manifest tl-hemselves as beauty,
reaching it in its manifold forms, and leaving nowhere
any residuum of plhenomena to be explained by a new
quality.   The idea of beauty has been  withl patient
effort and elaborate argument referred to association,
thius not only making  it a derived  notion, but one
F>.
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LECTURE I.
reached through a great variety of pleasurable impressiolls. It is plain, however, that association has no
power to alter original feelings, but only to revive them.
If beauty is not, therefore, as an original notion or apprehension, illtrusted to association, it cannot be given
by it, since this law of the mind has no creating or
transforming, but simply a unilting power. Association
can explain the presence of ideas, not their nature.
On this theory, beauty must chiefly be confined to the
old and the familiar, since upon these association has
acted, and be correspondingly excluded from the new,
as not yet enriched by its relations. This is not the
fact.  The beauty of an object has no dependence upon
familiarity, but is governed by considerations distinctly
discernible at the first examination.
In individual experience, it is a matter of accident
what objects shall become associated with pleasant, and
what with unpleasant, memories; and in community,
association is as capricious as fashion. No such caprice,
however, attaches to the decisions of taste.  A uniformity indicative of many well-establislled principles belongs to these.  So far as beautiful objects have beep
united by a firm association with wealth and elegance,
this association itself must be explained by their prior
and independent beauty; beauty has occasioned this
permanent preference, and not a groundless preference
this beauty. The simplicity of this quality is seen in
the presence of an unexplained and peculiar effect, after
we have removed all the effects which can be ascribed
to the known qualities present.
It is underived.  The primary nature of beauty presents a questioitof some difficulty, since there are qualities with which it is often so intimately associated that
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NOTION OF BEAUTY SIMPLE
its own existence in particular cases is dependent on
thleirs, and within this limited range it has the appear ance of a secondary and subsidiary quality. Ill many
things, their relations to use give limit and law to their
beauty, and, as we here find the impression of beauty
dependent onil all obvious utility, coming and goilg
therewith, it would seem anl easy and correct explana tion to refer this peculiar intuition and feeling to tlhe
perception and pleasure of anl evident adaptation of
means to an end in the object before us.  Tlhe error of
such a reference is clearly seen, however, ill anotlher
class of cases, in which this quality is found to have no
such connection with the useful, and to exist in a high
degree with no reference, or with a very obscure and
remote reference, in the object to any use.  If we under take to deduce beauty firom any quality or relations of
things, however successful we may think ourselves in a
few chosen instances, we shall find a large number of ob jects which our theory should explain, beyond its power.
A more careful examination of the very cases onl which
we rely will show us, that, while beauty may exist with,
it exists in addition to, the quality from which we would
derive it; that the utility with which it is associated is
not a cause, but a temporary condition, of its existence,
or rather that the same relations of the object include
and determine both its beauty and its utility.
As it follows, therefore, in regular sequence, 110o one
quality or set of qualities, we say that it itself is a
primary and simple quality. There is involved in this
assertion all inability to give any explanation of the
attribute, or any definition of the word by which it is
expressed. It is compound and derived tliini4s which
can be explained. Simples can only be directly known
11 
LECTURE I.
and felt.  Any explanation involves a decomposition of
thle thing explained, a consideration of its parts, and
thus all apprehension of it as a whole; or the reference
of it to some source or cause wlhence it proceeded, and
ill conInection with which it is understood.  But no sirnple thing can be decompoulided and explained through
its parts; or primary thing be referred as a derivative to
sometlhing back of it, and thus be explained in its cause.
Nor is the word  by which such simple is expressed
capable of any other deciiitionl than that of a syitoiymne.
A  definition lmust illelude one or more characteristic
and distinguisl-hig qualities by which the thing in hand
is separated from all others.
But in the case of a simple there is but one quality,
and that alone can be mentioned, and this is to name a
syloonyme.
All knowledge, therefore, of that which is simple and
primary, whether in perception or intuitioni, must be
direct.  Mind must ilnterpret mind, and  only  I)y the
interpretation of similar faculties can this class of properties be apprehended.   Certain  origilnal perceptions
and intuitions must be granted uis as the basis of every
defining and explanatory process, and explaniation cannot go back of its owln postulates to throw light upon
startinlg-poilits'.   Senses and faculties directly conversant with qualities tlle same for all, are these postulates.
All simple and primary notions and attributes are directly known tl-hrougll these faculties, and the language
which expresses them  is only explicable to those who
have the key, tle cliart, of kindred faculties.  Tle term
beauty is susceptible, then, of no definition, and the
quality beauty of no further knowledge and explanation
than thlat whichl the very power by which we perceive,
feel, know it, is able to give.
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RE.ASONAP,LE,.
The  conditions and relations of such an attribute
may still invite our attention.   Nor does the sinmple
and primary character of beauty exclude our second
assertion, which is, tlhat tllis quality is reasonable  tlhat
is, a quality for mhose existence a reason call be reiidered.   Certain other qualities occasion it to exist,
and these may  be pointed out.   Right is a primary
quality, yet all our judginelts of right proceed oni crtaiu premises which sustaiii them, and which can  be
rendered as a reason wly)v we  suppose this characteristic of action present.  Tlhus beauty, when  present,
is so tlhroug,h causes whiclh call be more or less dis tinctly assigned,  and is not, like  tlhe properties  ot
matter, merely knowni to be, without any  knowledge
of that which occasions them to be.  The proof of tlhis
is in tlhe fact that tlhere are questions of beauty, by
the concession of all, admitting and calling forthl dis ctIssio; tllat men not only discuss points of taste, butt
are persuaded by tlle reasonings employed.   Indeed,
if it were as true of intellectual as of physical tastes,
tlhat there is no disputing colcerning tlem, our  whlole
def)artment would be at once annihilated, and fall back
among the things incapable of explanation and kniowl edge. Our progress, and the propriety of every eff6ort
toward progress, rest on the assertion, tl'at beauty is a
subject of reasoning, and is, inll its existence, reasonable.
The important and pregnant nature of this assertion
will more and more appear as we advance, and its
truth will be involved in the very fact, that, following
in the steps of all who have preceded us; we make  evi dent that we regard beauty as a reasonable quality, by
actually  reasoning concerning its existence  and the
manner of its action.
13 
LECTURE II.
EXPRESSION THE SOURCE OF BEAUTY. -KIND OF
EXPRESSION.
THOUGH the simple and primary nature of beauty
excludes all analysis and derivation, it does not shut
us off from an inquiry for those things which mark,
limit, or are in any way the conditions of its existence. In pursuing our effort, therefore, to apprehend
and restrict as far as possible this quality, we find, as
the first condition of its presence,  expression,- the
utterance in visible or conceivable form of some thought
and feeling. In such forms alone is the incarnation of
beauty, and without them it has no individual and localized existence.  The thought and feeling which hlave
entered into the composition of any object, and which
there find expression, are not its beauty, for they still
preserve their own nature and characteristics, and may
be known and felt without the entrance to the mind of
that higher intuition and emotion occasioned by beauty;
nay, more, they may, in many objects, exist dissevered
from this quality.  These thoughts  and feelings are
rather the basis, the substance, of which beauty is a
new attribute. The strelngtll of an oak may be discerned, and its long and successful struggle with tihe
winds, without the impression of beauty arising, though
these are the very things which once seen in the oak
secure or enhance that impression.  Al  a,)prellensio:i
I 
EXI'P,ESSION TIlE SOURCE  OF I!EAUTY.
of subsidiary qualities, even ill their more expressive
forms, often exists with little ijtitition of the beauty
which belongs to them, and when thlis attribute is seen,
it implies the action of a new faculty taking cognizance
of a new quality. A peach may be known so far as
it effects all the other senses, and yet not be known
to the sense of smell; and when we discover that the
impression of fragrance is only made by those peaches
that are ripe, we do not thlence infer that ripeness and
fragrance are the same thing, but that fragrance is a
newly discovered quality of a ripe peach. So, in the
action of the reason, is beauty a newly discovered
quality of an object expressive of thought and feeling.
Expression, without being beauty, is that in objects
which alone gives them beauty; and those things and
conceptions alone are beautiful which are expressive.
Right is anl attribute of intelligent and free action, and
of liothing else.  There must be all action, and intelligence and freedom must belong to that action, before
there can be discerned in it this new intuition, right.
Al act is one thing, freedom, intelligence, and riglht
are three distinct qualities; but two of these must be
present in any act before that is found in which the
third can ilnhere. Riglht, tllen, demands, as the basis
of its existence, as that to which it can alone belong,
action free and intelligent, though  freedom and intelligence are conceptions wholly distinct from the right.
Truth belongs to a proposition.  This we may  figuratively say is the substance of wlhicll trutll is a quality.
Not that every propositioii possesses it, but that propositiols alone can possess it.  There must be an assertioni before  there can be a truth.  The assertion is
separable from the truth of the assertion, though  the
15 
LECTUREI 11.
first'is the condition, the slubstancee of the last.  Thus 
is it with the expression in objects wlich are beautiful.
All object, ideal or real, must be, and thought and feeling must belong to that object, before we have the basis 
to wlichll beauty may  belong.   These, however, may 
exist without beauty, and when beauty exists with these,
it exists as sometlhing in addition to them.  That thlere
nlttst be some object, either in imagination or fact,
either in substance or in action, to which beauty may
belong, before we  cal  possess this quality, none will
deny, since there is no abstract, but only  a concrete l
existence possible to the beautiful.   Nor is it difficulty/
to prove that there must also be present in this object  1
some thought and  feeling.   If there is no  thought 
contained in it, the object is meaningless, without de-  i
signied relations within itself, or with the objects about 2
it.  It can, lhencee, excite no definite feeling, since it
has given no direction to the intellect, and can only
be an object of total indiffebrence.   If beauty  could
attach to such all object, it would, as an emotion, be
wholly irrational, since utterly unable to give for itself any reason, or assign to itself any law or mode
of existence.   By  the supposition, the object called
beautiful is vacant of all thought, and hence of all
significant relations, and can in itself fuirnish no ground
for any reasonable emotion.  We might call an object,
within the sense of taste, sweet or sour, or pronounce
it to the sense of smell, fragrant or offensive, since
these are sensations which demand no other explaiatioii tlhan the mere naked presence of aii object.  We
have no such ilnsighlt into the properties of matter, as
either to anticipate what will be its effect on these
organs of sensation, or to render a reason for that
16 
EXPRF,SSION TH, SOURCE OF Bl"AUTY.
effect after it has occurred.   Sensations are  not reasona,ble  in the sense that any  reasonl  can  be given
why  the object present should  so  affect  the sense.
Any ol)ject, therefore, how little soever the knowledge
may be which we may possess of it, may occasion these,
since sensations exist without any assignable reason for
tllem save the mere presence of an object.
We  are not asked why an apple is sour, nor do  we
render any reason to ourselves for its making this impressioni  lupoIl us.  We  are asked, on the other hand,
why we regard an object as beautiful, and often seek
for our own satisfaction the precise qualities and relations whlich occasion this impression.   Beauty, unlike
a seusation, is a reasonable emotion.   We confirin or
abandon  our  opinioln thlrougli reasons rendered, and
ever feel that there is something in the object we tink
beautiful whichl occasions our judgment,  and  would
justify it to others, if by a successfutl analysis we could
riglitly reach and present it.  We always feel, and are
often able to express, tl-hat in ani object which makes
it beautiftLl.  That which has in it no expression cannot give rise to a reasoiable emotion because it can
furnlish no10 justification or explaiation of it, anld we
should be compelled to abaldoii the emotion the instait its validity should be questioned.
That expression in objects, the thought and feeling
contained in them, is the basis of beauty, is also showii
by the fact, that precisely as any object is rich in appropriate expressioln does it become  b)eautiful.  Inorgailie matter lhas in it comparatively little thought, little
work which is the obvious realization of thouglt, and
lhence it is relatively feeble in beauty.   It may exist
in granld dimensions. and  express power; in regilar
17
I 
LCI'TURE  II.
arrangements, and express tlhe trutls of mathematical
filgure; in brilliant and transparelnt gems, and ally itself
to light in its pure,  qiickeniig character, and  thus
obtain that utterance which makes it beautifiul.   B ut j
it is only as an aggregating, arranging, cleansing work
is seeii to lhave been done in it, by which it ceases to
be simiply ilert, passionless, unshaped matter, that it
gains expression, and with it beauty.  A brilliant sunset is indeed wonderfi  in tlhe multiplicity and variety
of its suy(gestionis, but oi.ly in proportion as tlhe mind
is open to thlese, and affluent in its receptive powers,
will it apprehend or feel the true character of the sceie.
Organic matter, both vegetab)le and animal, presents
a new  and  most subtle power.   Form  now  becomes
everywhere defi nite and peculiar.  A complexity of parts
and nmembers is yet reconciled in ani obvious simplicity
by the unity of the ilndividual.  All relations, both of
members withliii the orgoaiism and of tlhe organism to
that whlich is without it, become determinate, fixed, and
important.  Plan is more rigid, desigi is more  apparenit, labor more severe and complete, and, paradoxical
as it may seem, liberty and variety more obvious, inll
the ease and felicity of every new  adaptation within
the stern limits which the principle of li-fe everywhere
assigns itself. - Tiis all is but the presence of more expression, the embodiment in the plant and animal of
more  thoughlt, more  purpose and interest.   We  find
the variety, universality, and depth of beauty pro()portioniately increased, and that, as the department of life
has been made richer in all that expresses the immiediate presence of mind, so is it correspondingly richer
il objects of taste.
It is scarcely necessary to trace further this conlnece
I.
1,8
I 
EXPRIESSION THE SOIURPCE OF BEAUTY.
tioii ()f expression and beauty ill rational life, so obvious is it.  In  man we  have  not only the thought
which God has wrought illto his marvellous coinstitution, but hle himself is a second centre and source of
thought.  Through that complex, varied, and most expressive organ, thle countenance, and through action,
thloughlt and feeling are finding a constant mainifestation.   If these are a condition of beauty, we should
expect to find those features which  are the seat of a
rational spirit, and that character whichll is its most imnmiediate product, the liigh places of beauty.  Nor are
we  disappointed.   Of all sensible objects, thle,human
counteinance  has received the most profound admiratioii, and of ideal objects, clharacter, as uttered in featiure and act, has been the latest and severest study.
That expression in objects is the occasion of beauty
is fiurther slhown in the forms whichl art presents and
assumes.   The  pa-liting is primarily judged by  the
tliouoght which it proffers, by the nature and character
of the emotionii it contains.  Says Ruskin: " Greatness
of style coiisists in the habitual choice of subjects of
thouglut whicl involve wide interests and profound passions.  Style is greater or less in exact proportion to
the nobleness of the iuterests and passiot-s involved in
the sLubject.   A  natural disposition to dwell on the
higclhest thoughts of which humanity is capable coInstitutes a painter of the lhiglhest order."   No painting can
be beautiful witiout expression; -  and no criticism is
so sweeping and destructive as to say,. of any product
of art, it is mealliliess, destitute of langu-age.  Areliitecture struii(gles by mnagnitude to introduce a sense of
po.er, and, by its broken and chang,ing outline, a sense
of fiuluess and variety of resources.    A  search after
19
I
II
I
I
i 
LECTURE II.
feeling and tlhoughlt as luIrking in all that is beautifil
is everywhere apparent in poetry.  Simple description
never satisfies an impassioned nature.   It penetrates
appearances, reaches for the expression in its objects,
and lights its own emotionii by the emotion therein contained. Of this all fine poetry is a perpetual example.
"With cowslips wan, that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears."
"Mounntains on whose barren breast,
The  laboring clouds do often rest."
" Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went ont with sandals gray."
" I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
lts lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
And echo there, whatever is asked her, answers' Death.' "
"I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley."
"We parted: sweetly gleamed the stars,
And sweet the vapor-braided blue,
Low breezes fainned the belfry bars,
As homneward by the church I drew.
The very graves appeared to smile,
So fresh they rose in shadowed swells;
Dark porch,' I said, and'silent aisle,'
There comes a sound of marriage bells."
If, then, art is judged by the emotion which it raises,
and if its aim is to comprehend and bring out the emotive power of all that it presents, it is evident that art
at least perpetually recognizes the trntl), that expression
is the condition of the existence of beauty.  We  have
hitherto said, that thoii{ht and feeling are the basis of
beauty. It is evident that this is nlot trute of all thought
and feeling.   We  wish now, therefore, to restrict the
20
I 
KIND OF EXPRESSION.
proposition still further, and show more definitely the
kind of expression required.
The inquiry upon which we now enter is one of more
difficulty. So many and varied are the emotions which
directly, or by more remote association, are contained
in beautiful objects, that it is not easy to divide them
into classes, or affirm of them any common chlaracteristics.  As feeling does not arise except on an occasion
furnished ill some appropriate object, and as this object
involves an intellectual apprehension, we have coupled
the words thought and feeling as the two elements of
expression.  It is only, however, those thoughts which
awaken definite emotions, which do not tarry in the illntellect, but call forthl the feelings thiat claim our attention.  A mere truth as such is not the basis of beauty,
but only that truth which is the occasion and companionl
of feeling.  If we kniow the kind of feeling which must
be found in objects termed beautiful, we tliereiii know
the thought, since thought is sufficiently defined by the
feeling to which it gives rise.
As beauty itself occasions a pleasant emotion, it might
seem safe to say, that those feelings which give rise to it
must also be pleasurable.  This, however, is not a correct inference, since emotions unpleasant to their subject
are not always displeasing to the beholder. Sympathy
with suffering, sadness in view of a deranged moral system, remorse under a sense of personal guilt, are all
unpleasant emotions as felt, though often grateful  as
witnessed.  We are not, therefore, at liberty to draw so
general a conclusion as this, that only pleasant feeliing
will be the basis of beauty; much less the conclusionI,
that all pleasant feeling will give rise to this quality.
21 
LECTURE II.
So far as any vicious indulgence is a source of pleasure,
it is an object of hlearty reprobation, and in whatever
object presented will fail to gratify a correct taste.  Illn
this direction is it, however, that we may find a general
clew to guide us.
In the inorganlic world, we reach expression only as
tlere is an approach to order and form, only as the
creative power is seen to go further than naked existelice, to shape into something thlat wlich has been made,
to bring out of mere material a workmanship with its
interior and exterior relations, with its qualities and
uses.   Those things which mark  the presence of a
power whichl aimis not only to do, but to perfect that
which it does, to unite it by mutual ministrations into
a whole, and to carry it oil in a growth of powers to a
nobler service and more inclusive eld, give expression
and beauty to a world which were otherwise a hieap of
firagments, a chaos of uncompoullded elements.  All,
then, in the inorganlic world which speaks the presence
of a creative and arranlging thought is fitted to give
pleasura)le emotioll.
Sometimes tlhis comes out inll a mode of action, in an
obscure relatioii of forces, ill that which is olily discernilile and applrehellsible through the protracted action of
tlie intellect.   It, when reached, presents itself as a
truthl, and gives us the pleasure of a new truth.  Ocean
currents are of this character.  The eye never takes
tlem  in, the imagination feebly constructs them, the
mind alone conceives them, and, as the result of its research, receives the impressioln of contrivance and wisdom.   At  other times, the progress in the formative
thought is open to the sense, as it were, is seein iimmediately present in an object controlling and shlapiing it.
22
7
i
II
i
,III
I 
DEPENDENCE OF BEAUTY ON KNOWLEDGE.
Such all object presents itself as beautifuil, and, while
engagilig the intellect, acts most directly and strongly onI
the emotions.  The veining of marble lies in the sense
simply, needs no effort of comprehension, and leaves the
mind open to receive its expression.
Anything in the inorganlic world which indicates regression and  oppositionl is in itself not pleasant and
not beautiful.  From the dust of all decomposition the
thlought escapes, and with it the beauty.  The chains
which bind these are order and composition.  That, therl,
iii the inorganic world wlich pleases, and, when obviously presented, gives rise to beauty, is progress iii plaii,
something more given to the mind, a fresl realizations,
by which the chaotic becomes the created, and the created the perfected.  All reverse movement, thoiigli for
the time being expressive, as quickly destructive of expressioni, is painful.  The limitation whichl this statemeut requires will appear hlereafter.
It is evident, that, with growtli in knowledge, the
thouIght contained in things will become more apparent,
less the object of investigation, and more of inttuition,
and that, concurrent with this change, much beauty before concealed will become patenlt to tllhe observer.  The
previous discipline of tle person must often determine
whethler many things, both in art and in nature, will be
regarded as beautiful.  Tlhouguit whiclh is partially colncealed, through a want of an inltimate knowledge of its
appropriate signs, may laboriously occupy tle intellect
without much quickening feeling, wlhile familiarity with
truth and that lwhich expresses it may make a scene or
ail object, mute to most, a lively revelation.  Much
beauty, botli in art and nature, is laid o)pen b)y a direct
perception of qualities first reaclied tlirou,gh protracted
study.
a
23
i
I
I 
LECTURE II.
When we pass into tle regionl of life, the relations of
thlings become more definite, and the prinlciple we have
partially traced becomes clearer inl its manifestations.
The plant and thle animal have in them a new force far
ill advance of all that have preceded it, miucll more distillct and determillate ill thle form to which it gives rise,
iiivolving much subordinate action, various parts and
fitilletiols withlin itself, various dependencies and duties
witllout itself.
Tile plallt and the allimal, containing within circumscribed limits a most complex and successftd plan, withl
nlotlling SnpclfiUOtlS or deficient, are much more purely,
ilill,ediately, and sensibly thle product of thought thlan
matter.  Tlle  progress  of creative, formative power is
liere stroingly marked, and with thlis increase of expressiOll, thle illquiry recurs, Whlat killd of expressioln is thle
basis of beauty? alnd tlhe allswer to be giveln is esselitially that already given in ilnorganlic matter.
Tilat whlichl marks tle action of a vigorous, vitaliziilg
power, which ilndicates the easy  and  perfect  control
of the living force over all the matter withlin its reach,
trallsformillg, purifying, coloring, and arralnginlg it by
its own stbtile efficiency, awakens tlle feeling of beauty.
Aally of thle processes of life, its various orgails, the
relations of thlese, and the function of each, are matters
for the intellect, requtirilig careful ilnvestigation, aid are
presented to the mind, not as iimmediately seeii ill the
obiect, but as learned to be in it through thle mind's actioll.  Tile internal organs of the allilnal are a sulject for
protracted study, and the mind may take,great satisfactioii ill the truths reached; but there is usually i;1 them
1o opportunlity for suchll direct perceptioll of fitness in
form aLtd conipletc,iiess of office as to excite thle idea of
I
24
f
I
I 
UGLINESS.
beauty. Those plants and animals are deemed beautiful, the symmetry of whose compacted parts, the felicity
of whose distinct members, and whose adaptation to
their method of life and local surroundings, are clearly
discerned. Increased knowledge is always found to
elnlarge the number of objects regarded as beautiful,
because it enlarges the qualities and relations which
perception gives to the mind.   Anything  which the
mind comes to see as obviously indicating the presence
and perfect control of the vital power, as the place,
color, form, or action assigned a member, it will, unless
overruled by some unfavorable association, regard as
beautiful.  Some animals, as the horse and lion, present
themselves at once with a life so compact, forceful, and
symmetrical in its members, so evidently within the
aiiimial's own wielding, as to be instantly pronounced
of all beautiful.  The fish, on the other hand, needs to
be interpreted by the elcment in which it moves; and,
at play ill the water, by its agility and adroitness, by the
evident mastery of the vital force over these new conlditions, it, too, becomes beautiful.
If any plant or animal is regarded as ugly, it is,  (a.) Because in the individual or species there is
deficiency, some falling short of the generic type, by
which weakness of the vital prilnciple, a partial triumph
of inorganic tendencies is indicated; or,
(b.) Because the plant or animal is not seen in its
true element or position, and thus is not truly seeln,seen in the adaptation and relation of its parts; or,
(c.) Because  some association overrules the mind
in its judgment.
We shall speak of each of the three occasions of uglineoss, and shall find them to proceed on the principle
3
25 
LECTURE IT.
already presented, that beauty is present in all the 
obviously successful products of a creative, formative
power.
In the first case of ugliness, the words by which we
must frequently characterize it - awkward, overgrown,
one-sided, deficient, deformed - all indicate some eimbarrassed action of the living force; that it has not
completely vitalized and controlled the material which
it has taken within its action; and that this inability
to execute its plan, this stammering and falling short
in the utterance of its message, give pain.  The fact
also, that any disease or decay in the plant is so imuch
more offensive than  any deficiency in thie inorganic
world, and that deformity  and decomposition in the
animal are still more offensive than in the plant, show
withl what increase of feeling we value and cherish these
higher products of creative power, and with what sensible emotion we see them slipping back firom the vantage-ground once gainied by them.   The victories of
life we joy inl; the victories of death we moiuru over.
Of the second form of ugliness, -  that belonging to
a plant or animal out of its place, -  sea-plants and
water birds often furnish an illustration.
The vegetation, seemingly half inlorganic, which hangs
like matted hair oil the brow of some rock from wl-hich
thie tidal wave has for a moment withldrawn, would, in
its dull colors, flatulent stemns, and  unusual forms
hardly be thought to possess any excellence; but when
the oceanii has returned to these plants, and, opening
their ranks and spreading their foliage, they stand in
the deep sea-green, a mimic, flexible forest, pulsing,
not to the winds, but the waters, few can fail to call
them beautiful.
26 
SUMMATION.        A
The heron  amoing  land or  air fowls seems  to  be
lengthened out of all proportion and adaptations, and
to be utterly destitute of every grace; but wlhen seen
iii the marsh stalking amid its tall reeds or wading
the sluggish stream, shootilng its reed-like neck and
strong bill as a fliiit-headed arrow after its prey,  the
effect is very different.  The sense of beauty is present
,;t~heIi the design is seein.
Thle third form of ugliniess, whlich will be found to ill  clude cases not already explained, arises from association.
()f this we give, as an example, the pelican.  The Ipouch
of this ainimal will be felt to make it a, homely bird.
Thloughl  the intellect may fully understand the office of
this ap-)peiidage, and its adaptation thereto, it still allies
itself iii the senses to tlhat wliiclh is inorganic or dis  eased.  It seems an empty sack without vitality, or an
unhealtlhy tumor, and tlhe intellect cannot overrule so
stronlg and universal an association.  In some aniimals,
their  dishoiorable office and localities prejudice  us,
and in others, their real or supposed noxious qualities.
Our ignorance, our superstitions and early impressiolns,
will evidently be fruitful sources of these destructive
associations.
From what has been presented, we think we are entitled to advance as a general, if not as an absolute
truth, the assertioni, that the kind of expression in the
organic kingdom, which is the basis of beauty, is that
of a perfecting vital power.   In proportion as this vital
force is complete, controlling the material, form, color,
and arrangement of its products, puttilng its seal upon
ev-ery particle, is the product beautiful.  The easy, ampie, accurate way in which the organic end is reached,
the mastery of resources and delicacy of finish, which
'D T 
LECTURE II.
mark a power in love with its labor, are here the insig- 
iia of that perfection we term beauty.  We have still 
further to speak of the moral world, and the reflex influence which this must exert on that below it. It is
sufficient for the present to have shown that beauty
is found with order in the ilnorganic, and with life in
the organic world.
28
I
i
I 
LECTURE III.
BEAUTY IN MAN. -THE EFFECT OF SIN.- REFLEX INFLUENCE
OF MIND ON PHYSICAL BEAUTY.
WE have one more important step to take in answering the question, What kind of expression is the occasion of beauty? to point that out in rationiial action, in
character, which gives rise to this emotion. We have
seen beauty on the side of truth and life, we shall now
see it on the side of right.  In order to understand
what is uttered by God in man, and what is uttered by
man in his own actions, we need to know man in his
spiritual and intellectual nature.  As an organic being,
as an animal, hlie has organic, aniimal beauty; but so
wholly is this part of his nature overshadowed by his
higher endowments, that no mnere flush and fitlness of
physical life can meet or fill our idea of beauty in man.
The human body is not simply a living body, but the
soul's instrument: the face is not merely the seat of all
surface senses, but a translucency in whose shadows
come and go the reflections of a spiritual life. The
symbols of thought  and signs of feeling which are
found in man and in man's action, to be pt all apprehenided, must, therefore, be understood in their relation
to the superior spiritual powers and duties which lie
back of them. No cheap excellency of color and form,
of grace and courtesy, is permitted unto man. Much
has been given unto him, and much must be req1p: —?
I
I 
LECITUPI  III.
of him.   MIere delicacy aild symmetry of features, if
lnot displeasiig, lhave little power to arrest tlhe atteiitioii, and none to refresl the heart.
What is highest in mall mutst be discovered, and this
must rule out that which is base  and overrule tlhat
which is inferior.  Aniything iln feature or act wlliel
reveals a lower impulse triumphing over a higlier, a1l(
which  so presents itself to the spectator, cainiot  )e
deemed pleasing, cannot be deemed beautiful. A work
must be commendable and lnolle before it can be beautiful, and that which speakls of degradation and bondage must, to every mind attuned to health and freedom, be painful.  We are not prepared for a high ideal
of manly beauty till we possess a high idea of man, -
till, having brought him up in the worth of character,
we show hiln in feature and act for that which he is.
We need not stop to insist, that to enlthronle the physical in man, either in tlhe baser formn of a rounded and
lusty contour, or in tl-he nobler form of bole and sinew,
is to overlook' tle spiritual, - to sink it in the simply
orgailic, -is to make men, Inot a little lower than the
angels, but a little highler than the brutes,- is, not to
establish the divine in the flesh, but to smother the divine with the flesh, - -is to extinguish the torch which,
burning behind the tracery, reveals its divine pattern.
Nor is the daiiger less certain, though less extreme,
in regarding man as pure intellect, -  ill watching and
striving to trace only the workings of thouglht.  The
lag'er share of life is not in thinking, but in feelil,g;
the better share of life, not in right thinking, but in
right feeling.  It is not truth latent in thought, b~it
patent in the character, - truth passing into the heart,
and thence, through the will, into that only great product
30
f 
INT'!LLECTUAL CONDITIONS OF PlAUTIrY.
of man, conduct,- that gives pleasure.   Man  may not
only think the truth, but feel it, and build  himnself
uponi it; and these his higher prerogatives we demand
slall in some  form  or other be brought out before
we accord the praise of spiritual beauty.  That which
is lighlest in man is a loving apprehension of the true
and the rigoht, and that vwhichl is lhighest in conduct is
the victory of these over error and wrong.  That, then,
t gives us pleasure in man as man, which is the mark
', of a spirit loyal to truth and right.   Treachery and
desertioni lhere are a meanness for which, if truly under  stood, nothing can  atoiie.  In these two intuitions is
discerned the progress of tle creative plan in man, and
we insist that there should be no regression.   That in
expression which conceives and realizes this progress is
the l)asis of spiritual beauty; tlat is, beauty restiing o0
spiritual qualities.  He only who approlheids strongly
and clearly the new type of creatioil firniishled in man,
and what, therefore, is to be looked for in a being
lifted within the realmn of truth and right, can either
fully  ulderstan,d or powerfully present the  signis of
manly character, and tlhus of manly beauty.  As in the
illorganice and organic kingdoms, the line of beauty
runs i-,arallel with that of order and creation, so here
we have a new  spiritual creation, and a new spirit  nal order is demanded.
Before, weakness, decay, and death were thle deform  ing agents; but here ignorance,- for ignorance is the
weakless of this realm, -  error, and vice are these
agents, and on wlwat(ever tlese putt their seal, there is
seeln that discomfiture of reasoin, that defeat of virtue,
wlich is true deformity.
In the beauty whlilih belongs to maii, lower organic
01 
LECTURE  III.
beauty is included, gathered lip as an element, yet a
secondary and feeble element, with that which is l)roader, fuller, and nobler. That expression which Ruskin
terms the appearance of felicitous fulfilment of funetioii in living things may still be present, but is no
1louger first or second in importance, and is modified
and overborne by the temper of the spiritual and intellectual life.
Not chiefly, however, does the human body claim to
be recorgnized in its own  beauties, but much more
imperatively in its own rights. It may show service
strongly and freely rendered, but not service exacted
in ascetic rigor.   By far the most painful expression
in man is that which shows a servant enthroned, the
license and debauchery of appetite, the malignity of
insane passion, the whole man put to vile and wicked
uses.  This is a temple desecrated, -a.n altar with an
impure sacrifice, - violence in the seat of mercy. Only
secondary to this is the rigor of asceticism, finding a
grim pleasure in the waste and squalor it has created.
Though a despotic and harsh rule of mind over bcdy
can never so repel us as the usurped dominion of the
unclean lusts,- harpies of the flesh, - yet both imply an
intestine and most unhappy warfare, in which victory
on either side is the pillage and devastation of a portionii
of man's inheritance.   To the mind that understands
these signs of a civil, a domestic feud, they must be
disagreeable.   Guarding against the one danger, we
say that the body should show service performed, not
government by it exercised.  The steed, though foaming, must be reined, and not a runaway. The mind
must aniimate, pleasurably animate, and powerfully eontrol every member and feature of the body.  Faithful
32
i
i
i k 
THE BODY IN ITS RELATIONS TO THIE iIIND.
service, fidelity, is the body's highest honor, and it must
know and make known that it is the pliant instrument
of an lloiiored master.
Guarding against the other danger, we say the body
may show use, but not abuse.   Self-torture is not to be
disguised under the name of self-rule, nor is it to I)e
hinted that there is a necessary and radical hostility between the constituents of maii's nature.  The plhysical
is not to be the victim of the spiritual, tile body is not
to be burned out or dissolved away ill the laboratory of
thoughiit.  It is not over the decay and ashes of organic
structure that mind is to reign, but over its most perfected product, nor alone over it, but in it and with it,
finding often the measure of its own strength in that of
its physical instrument.
In seeking, therefore, for that expression in man
which is the basis of beauty, the body must be regarded,
not as a living thing simply, but as, in all its complex
functions, the organ of spirit, and in it there must be
sought the signs of perfect and felicitous control by an
agent itself in spiritual health.  That which is ulhealtlly
ill the mind or in its action on the body cannot, so far as
discerned, give the impressionl of beauty.  It is regression and failure, weighing us down with a sense of
defeat.
A fact comes in here, however, wlichl must always
greatly modify our views of that which is beautiful in
the world and in manl- the fact of sill.  The spirit is
ill a real, though nlot a necessary and inherent, conflict
with the body, or, as we now designiate it, the flesh.
The virtue, and therefore the beauty of manl, ceases to
be thle virtue of repose.  There are necessarily in him,
when most victorious, traces of the battle, and we are
2 *
33 
LECrTURE III.
no10 longer displeased, therefore, withl thlat which shows
the subtile, strong workings of evil, if only it is evil subdued.
We shall mark the effect on taste of this knowledge
of conflict in human virtue ill several directions.
(a.) Tile body is suffered to show marks of severity,
to bear visible traces of its crucifixion under the spirit,
and this, because we all know it a restive and treacherous servant.
As we have seen its guilt, we are not startled or offended by its manacles.  Though still withdrawing from
angelic and perfect niatures any appearance of struggle,
we yet know that struggle is and must be present in
man, and are not displeased with evidences in the body
of stern discipline and unceasing rule. It is remenmbered that victory is always to the defeated severity,
and in the pale and attenuiated features there is a willingiess to see the tri'umpl of a better impulse.  Every
human face is searched for traces of the conflict, and
we expect there something of the stern regimeni of the
battle-field. Great scope is here given amid the shifting phases of passion for tlhe development of partial
good, of power regained, though not held with the repose of untempted virtue.
(b.) As a result of this conflict, strength, and even
sternness of will, are sought in expression. As man's
career is or should be a prolonged resistance, a persistellt toil, as crime and obstacles are to be surmoiiited,
temptations to be overcome, and dangers to be imet,
nothing but will can take a firm stand or push a determined advance.   We  often recognize, therefore, with
pleasure, in human expression that which is rough anld
rugged, that which is firm and forcible, since in these
34
t
i
I',
1. 
~
CO':i:I, I-T IN HtU.AN VTRIFUE.
virtue may find a citadel and guilt a retribution. So
conscious is man every moment of the need of strength,
and, above all, of the strength which can say no to passion, that will is ever felt to be the very framework of
character, and we care not if it occasionally lie on the
surface in massive ribbed strength.
(c.) This sense of a present and most urgent struggle makes us less content than ever with simple iniitellect in expression.  We demand that every maii should
take a part, and show the right part which hle has takenii
in this conflict.
Our distrust and fear of men, the dangerous depths
of the race lie in feeling, in passion, and in purpose;
and no one stands revealed in the maiiinner of his manhlood, till revealed at these points. We wish, therefore,
to see the breaking out of character, -the utterance,
not of truth merely, but of one's heart toward the truth.
Pure thinking is a disguise, -  an ab)straction; we wish
to see the disclosed,- the concrete man as he is and
feels.
(d.) A sense of the sternness of the conflict between
rule and anarcly -betweeii right and wayward teiidencies in man - makes every, even the slightest indicatiois, and those too of a partial victory, pleasurable.
Symmetrical and stalwart virtue is too much to be oftenii
anticipated, and the feeble appearance of single graces
like the putting forth of early flowers amid frosts and
snow, brings pleasure.  It is the hard rule of winter
which gives to the spring a loveliness, not lost evenii
when contrasted with the luxuriance of the later sea son. It is the desert desolation of a sordid and selfish
heart that imparts such grace to all human virtue, and
makes it more rare and enviable than angelic excel
35 
LECTURE  III.
lence.  This acceptance which feeble and partial things
find in man greatly increases the vaiety of expression,
and thus of beauty found in character.  If ideal perfection were in each instasce requisite, character must
soon cease to include that whlichl was new, to modify or
exclude that which was old.  Every happy stroke and
correct delineation would  be a new limitation from
wlich we could not depart, and our perfection would
be lost in the monotony of its own excellence.  The
infinite may be untiaclgeaiale, and, as ever eluding the
grasp of man, preserve its scope.  The finite, made unchlangeable, dies at once, and, fortluniately, in the very
weakness of its perceptions and powers, finds a reason
for that infinite variety whlichl is nevertheless infinite
deficiency.
(e.) Another result of the known and universal presence of evil is, that in a complex whole  clharacters
of unmitigated  meanness  or malice  are suffered to
appear. As no paini is given by those signs which in
the individual indicate a temptation, if it be a temptation resisted, - a passion, if it be a passion ruled, —  so,
in the group, a Shlylock or an Iago may be present, if
Shylock be baffled and  self-tortired, and if to Iago
there i; remains the censure of a hellish villain."
Evil, which in the individual stood represented by an
untamed impulse, in the drama and novel, presenting a
more formidable and compact power, takes possession
of its agents, and through tlhemn pushes to the quick
the champions and martyrs of virtue. As the field is
broader, the sin is broader, and marshlals its own dis tinct forces.  While, therefore, we still may take no
pleasure in villany as villany, yet, as vanquiishled vil lany, as that which has raised virtue into valor, it
86
i
II
I 
PRESENCE OF GUILT.
plays a most essential part, - makes life soul-stirring
and tragic, and is the dark, retreating cloud along
whose gilded edges the now dominant light shows all its
brilliancy.  Avarice, envy, and malice are not less deformed and deforming; but we need the contrast of
their depths, to give height to our virtue, - the strength
of the evil, to measure the power of that good which
has subdued it.
The same principle, however, applies to the group and
the narrative as to the portrait and tle biography.  Tile
preponderance - the settling of the scales, both of justice and of power -must be with virtue, -must so be
as to mark the presence of a true and irresistible spiritual power. Otherwise, our better impulses, baffled and
deserted, fall back ill despair on themselves, or rise up
to reject the lie. Treason and the hlalter, villany and
judgment, are as consonant as fidelity and success, courage andtvietory. Whatever may be the transient relationl of things, we have patience to wait, if thle issues
indicate that there is power with truth, and that thiere
is a growth into moral order, though  the foundations
of that order be laid in the hard, unclhipped granite
of justice.
It is evident, with the perverted and shifting sense
of right which belongs to men, there will be endless
variety inll what they will term beautiful. They may
choose, in the play or the painting, to overlook leading
tendencies and radical issues, to fix the attention on
minor points, and, on the basis of these, to proiiounice
the work beautiful.  They may refuse to see a portion
of the expression, and, exalting another portion, distort
their judgment; or, incapable of discovering the under current of truth, of understanding the combined voice
4<
37
f7 
LECTURE III.
of the whole, the parts may be a dull or melancholy
medley. But where there is no concealment, and no
distortion through a limited or perverted perception, it
is evident the healthy heart will only receive pleasure
fi'om that expression which is healthy, and that the false,
the morbid, the faithless, can never be to it the basis of
beauty.  Each of these imply a spiritual disease, and
when distinctly seen produce the impression of deformity- or ugliness.  A  man's estimates of beauty in the
moral world can neither pass muelh beyond or fall much
below his virtue.  It is this which indicates his apprelhenisionl of the relations, the law, the order, the iniiferiority and superiority, the better and the worse, which
belong to spirit, and lhence of the excellency which is
possible to it. But this, his judgment of virtue, once
shaped, the beauty of all action is thereby determined,
and the mind refuses to take pleasure in that which to
it indicates weakness and a failure of thought and spirit,
the very energies whose action was to be displayed.
(f.) It also results from the presence of evil, that we
take pleasure in the manifestation of certain emotions,
which are in themselves painful, and indicate a desertion
cf riglit impulses, such as remorse and shame.  These
are the last efforts of defeated virtue, the pulsations
which indicate the presence of life and the possibility of
its return.  They  come in, therefore, to redeem the
terror of a death which otherwise hastens to be perfect.
Remorse ought to be, shame ought to be, and we are
glad to see that this last law which remains to guilt is
unbroken.  In the sad though  not unkind climate of
this world, shame and penitence have a renewing, fruetifyiig power, are themselves the l)lursting bud of virtue.
Pity and sadness are gentler emotions in the same man
i
38
I
Ii
i 
REFLEX ACTION OF MAN ON NATUIRE.
ner begotten and justified by the fact of evil. Every
man  quick in his perception and sensitive ill his feelings, must find an only too frequent occasion for them,
and whenever, therefore, rightly expressed, they will
kindle the subdued pleasure of sympathy.  Even the
grief of virtue has in it a tincture of joy.
As the fruit of this discussion, we say that, in this
I-human world, that expressioii alone will be to any mind
beautiful which indicates to it the felicitous action of
the powers at work; that the notion of what constitutes
success must vary greatly with the intelligence and
virtue of the beholder; and that a sense of conflict and
resistance modifies all our judgments.
It was to be expected that more pleasure slholld be
felt in organic than in inorganic beauty, and in hutman
beauty than in either, since here is the higher work,
the fuiller expression, the more immediate and personal
interests.  So trite is this, that what has been said of
beauty in the fields of physical and vital forces would
be but a very partial presentation, were we not now to
trace the reflex action of human feeling on all that nia ture presents.  Though  the rock and the lichlen, the
mountain and the forest,- are valued for what they in trinsically contain, they often have a much higher power
from a certain sympathy which is established between
them and man, by which hle does not so much receive
what they nakedly present as invest them  with some
of his own attributes and relations, and cause them to
reflect his own feelings. Not that nature is a simple
sounding-board to the soul of man, sending back to him
anything he may choose to utter, but that, througlh the
eager interpretation of his own heart, he is able to dis cover in her something of the saime conflict which he
I
II
39 
LECTURE  ITI.
experiences in himself, - to rejoice in the achievements
of 11er productive power as a triumph, to mourn over her
failture and decay as a new breaking out of the serpent
virus, to feel the hope of her smile and the life of' her
summer, the dejection of her frown and the despair of
her bitter cold.
Owing to this shladowiing forth of his own states in
thle states of nature, many things give pleasure to mai
which would otherwise llave no power to gratify.
(aC.) Power simply destructive, like thlat of the earthquake and tornado, alld apparently including a violent regressioll, may still excite tlie feeling of sublimity.
Tlloroughlly conscious of his own weakness and of the
,lecessity of power as tlhe basis of all good,  notling
moves manl more deeply tlhan its manifestatiolls; most
pleasurably as well as most profoundly wlhen it is power
in tlhe service of creative wisdom and love  yet profoundly when, wild and wayward, it seems for tile mnomenlt the breaking out of superabundant  and tinconstrained strength.  When the spectator is not pressed
illto terror by the too immediate presence of a dangeroils agency, its action does  not rest upoll the mind
simply as wilful, cruel destruction, olnly the more inlexplicable and hlorrible as it is thle more extended.  If
this were its impression, the sense of power wotuld be
overruled, as in the merciless sack of a city, and thle
only feeling excited would be that of hlorlor.
AMore often. the mind either looks beyold its a)parellt
or immediate effects, as ill the case of the storm, ald
feels, amid all its wrath, the presence of a remedial
ageilcy; or it sees in it tl-lhe image of justice, and, clotlhimg, it with retribution, filnds its sense of moral order
met; or, it regards this work of devastatioii as tlle fin
I
40
I
f
If
II 
PHYSICAL DESOLATION.
ishing up and sweeping away of the old, about to give
place to the new. Ili all these cases, the feeling of power
is left to operate upon the soul, and work therein its
own sense of elevation. Those agencies, however,
which speak a language of pure violence, of retreat and
ruin, can only terrify and repel.
(b.) Scenes of desolation, worn and wasted, which,
for their physical and oirgainic expression, would inot be
beautiful, may nevertheless be so throughl  their relation to mail,-  their expression of moral truth.   The
ruined city, amid the heaping  sands of the desert,
may be a most forcil)le utterance of the liabilities,- the
transient character of lhumaii work, - of the fate, the
issues, of nature as locked up in, and subordinate to,
those of maln.
We have already seen how abundant and ever-present
in manl is the wild, the dark, and the sad; and these, by
anll inevitable sympathy, will draw with them that which
is wild, dark, and sad in nature. The courage of our
mariners, the endurance of our heroes, the faith of our
explorers, must be measured by severe tests, and these
will be found in the angry oceaii, the relentless desert,
and inexorable polar ice. There must be the rock and
cavern for the hermit and sainiit of sackcloth, the wilderhess for thie prophet with camel's hair and leathern
girdle.  In fine, as maii's scale of healthy feeling ranges
from exultant joy to sadness, firom the quick and mieriy
peal of pleasure to those deeper, slower chords wliili
would have never been strulig but for sin, -  there must
be in that nature which is to enter in as a subdued and
harmonized chorus, - which is to make the whole a
concord, -the same variety of emotion.  Thus is it
that the  unfinislhed and waste places of nature, her
41
.r -
I
f 
LECTURE  III.
weakness, and the decay of her organic structures, may
often be as expressive as what was before termed her
felicitous fulfilment of living functions.
(c.) We  before saw that variety in man implied a
deficiency, which yet, through our sense of his finiteness,
gave no offence.   We  shall also accept and rejoice in
much in the world about us, which, viewed from one
point, might indicate desertion and unfinished work.
The rock-ribbed mountain, though rent, rugged, and
barren, rightly stands over against the exuberant life of
the valley, for there is in it another line of action,-  a
new record of power, and a sterner sense of conflict. It
is not in the towering forest alone that we delight, but
in the feebler, but not less perfect, victory of the violet.
(d.) What we may term our ideal of any plant or
animal is, by this sympathy of men with effort and a
mission fulfilled, greatly modified. It is not always the
tree that is most luxuriant, nor the flower which is largest and most complete, wlicill has the most power over
the heart.  The tree which, in the very track of storms,
stands furthest out on the lean soil of sterile rocks, the
forlorn hope of the vegetable kingdom, may move us
more than the indolent, glutted occupant of the meadow.
The delicate dwarfed flower that has earliest felt the
toiuchli of spring, and, first to escape the yielding winter,
has crept from amid the snIows, a weak but joyful harbinger of the yet distant summer, has a voice of watchiiIg and hope not to be heard again from all the loitering ranks of spring or autumn.
Says Ruskin: "The first time that 1 saw the Soldanella Alpina before spoken of, it was growing of mnagnificent size on a sunny Alpine pasture amollg bleating
of sheep and lowing of cattle associated with a pro
42 
[DEAL  OBJ,ECTS.
ifusion of Geum  montanum and Ranunculus Pyrenteus.
I noticed it only because new to me, nor perceived
any peculiar beauty in its cloven flower.  Some days
after, I found it alone among the rack of the higher
clouds and howling of glacier-winds, and, as I descried it, piercing through an edge of avalanche, whlic:h,
in its retiring, had left the new ground  brown and
lifeless, and as if burned by recent fire; the plant was
poor and  feeble, and  seemingly exhausted  with its
efforts, but it was then that I comprehended its ideal
character, and saw its noble function and order of
glory among the constellations of the earth.
"The Ranunculus glacialis might perhaps by cultivation be blaniched from its wan and corpse-like paleness
to purer vwhite, and won to more branched and lofty
development of its ragged leaves.   But the ideal of
the plant is to be found only in the last loose stones of
the moraine, alone there; wet with the cold, ulkilndly
drip of the glacier-water, and trembling as the loose
and steep dust to which it clings yields ever and anon,
and shudders and crumbles away from about its roots."
Somnething allied to this is seen in our estimate of
the coarser and more strongly-colored flowers of Fall.
The aster and the golden-rod will, when compared with
the spring-beauty and the early anemone, hardly bear
the plucking.  But the position assigned them is very
different; and, standing where nature placed them, amid
tlhe rougher, bolder work of autumn, the full-grown
glass, the rank weeds, and the reddening shrubbery,
they greatly enrich the scene and make gorgeous the
decadence of the year.
The discovery of a place occupied, an office performed, is felt to be a new pleasure in any object.
(e.) Theu most important reflex action of the nlature
II'
Ii
43 
44                     LECTURE III.
of man on the nature below it is that by which a moraa'
quality is widely imparted to beauty.   We wish, not
onlly to see thoughlt and skill, but these employed in
the ministrationii of love.   Sensitive organlism, to be
beautiful, must ever by its action secure its own pleasure.   The  happiness, the good of the thing created
must present itself as habitually and perseveringly included in the creative plan.  Thus, the moral ellaracter of thle Creator stands revealed ill his work, and
the mind seeks for, and chiefly deligl:lts in, that revelation, as we  before saw it to delight in the open and
healthy action of manl's moral nature.  It is i.ever forgotten that benevolence should pre-eminently belong
to God, and that thle love which enters into his creationI and providence, sllowing him everywhere the only
ulitiring benefactor, is our best hope and promise.  The
mind taught in the region of human actioi  looks on
everything as a disclosure of character onl the part of
the Divine agent wl-ose work it is, and tllus directly
transfers to every beautiful as to every excellent ol)ject
a feeling, -the feeliing which in the heart of God gave
rise to it, and shaped it.  No  wise action is without
its end, its significance, its moral quality.
Thle first thing which we have now pointed out as the
basis of beauty, as thle substance in which it inheres,
is expression.  This expression has also been defined in
the iliorganic world as the manifest presence of a creative, formative thoughlt, - as advancing truth; in the
organic world,  as the successful and the pleasurable
fuilfilment of vital functions, -as advancing life, which
also is the advance of higher truth; in the rational
world, as the acceptance of the law of reasoin, the advance, the victory, of the right, and this, too, ill the
midst of conflict. 
LECTURE IV.
SECOND CONDITION OF BEAUTY, UNITY.- UNITY AND VARI  ETY EXPLAINED. - SUBLIMITY.- ABSOLUTE AND RELATIVE
BEAUTY.
BEAUTY is not a primary, direct quality of things.
There are not certain things to the exclusion of others
which have this as a property, as some fluids are corrosive and some volatile.  This quality may be gained
or lost by an object with each change of arrangement in
its parts.  It is not inherent in the tlhing, but belongs
to the aptness and power of the thing in its present form
or present office.  It is not a constituent of the matter
making a rose, but arises from the transient relation
and expression which that matter has assumed. Virtue
is not a quality of all action nor of the same action in
all circumstances, but only of actions which stand in a
certainii relation to the person performing them and the
persons affected by them.  In like manner, the lower
virtue of beauty is taken up and lost with the expression in which it inheres. Expression we have therefore given as the first condition in the object of beauty,
- as that in things and actions which gives rise as a
cause to beauty,-which furnishes the true substance of
which beauty is a quality. A second condition of beauty
is unity, or, as expressed on both sides, unity and variety. This is not something in addition to the expression,
but is the method of the expression,- the form which 
T,F,CT'URE   TV.
utterance assumes.  Expressionii is found in the beaitiful ol ject, aid found thlere under the form of' Anity.
The object, that it may be beautififl, is conditioned to
expression; the expression is conditioned to unity.
Unity is one of the most widely recognized criterions
of beauty, and  has sometimes been confounded with
that to which it so often gives rise.
But the unity of a thing is to the mind a wholly (listinet and separable quality from its beauty, and will not
be found necessarily to include, or uniformly to involve,
the rarer, richer attribute.   The general recognition,
however, of unity in all distinctively beautiful objects,
while failing to show its identity with the higher expressionI, yet helps to mark it as an antecedent, a condition
thereof.
The unity to which reference is now had is not that
of office, as the concurrence of wheels in a machine, nor
is it the unity of mere existence in the same place or
time, but the harmony of expression by which the parts
of ain object unite in producing and deepening a single
feeling. It is a harmony of emotions, as music is a
harmony of sounds, and implies no direct resemblance,
much less sameness, in the objects between which it
exists, in the means by which it is produced. Unity
implies plurality, variety, and designates that concurrent
power of the parts by whicl they become in their action
on the mind a whole, lending themselves to a single
effect. The absolute unit, - the one, - cannot be the
source of beauty, for it has in it no obvious revelation
of thought or feeling.  It incluides no relation, and as
contemplated alone stands in no relation.
The mind of man does not penetrate essences, does
not perceive power or wisdom in simple existence  it is
4 -C)
i
i 
VAPIETIY NECESSAP,RY,
Only in the mode and relations of that existence that lie
discovers these.  It is the correspondence and miniistration of parts, the presence of an office or function, and
the ability to meet that function; the compacting of various members into symmetrical wholes; the obvious referenice of each thing to something without itself, called
an end; a relating and ordering in reference to each
other of thiings which exist,    thlat mark for manl the
presence of tliought.
We  nmust go, therefore, beyond the unit before we
have anything fitted to reveal a plan, a purpose, a power,
to the initellect, and thus move tlhe feelings.
Indeed, long before our analysis reaches the final unit,
things become too barren of relation to make  the impressioli of beauty. A straiglit line, a limited section
of the most gracefiul curve, a single color, though each
letters in the alphabet of beauty, as yet uncompoinded
into ilntelligible expressioln, teaclh nIothing and secure
nothing.  A fine pigmenlt that lies uilshapen on the palette impresses the eye, but not the intellect; it is brilliant, but not beautiful: transferred to the canvas, it assunmes form, relation, office, and elntering the region of
thought, may now claim for itself a rational attribute,
beauty.
Since, therefore, thouglt is broulght out in relations,
and not in naked existence, we must have these relations - that is, plurality, variety - before we can have
any strictly rationial feeling.  Some degree of complexity is tlle indispensable condition of thought, and of
those emotions wlficll spring, not from  perception, but
apprehension.
Beauty, truth, and right inhere in objects, proposiLio-ls, and actions, not directly as qualities iilliere in
47 
LEC'I'tURPE IV.
tilings, but in them as subjects of thouglht: the statue
is thought to be beautiftil; the propositioni is tihouight
to be true; the action is thoulght to be right.  But
each of the three as subjects of thought are complex.
Tlhoughlt cannot act on the single, but only on the
I)lurial; its first product, a judgment, implies at least
two conceptions. As beauty does not arise from a seiinsatioii whose content is a thing, but from an intellection
wvlose content is a tloulght, and as a thlought must cojitain more than one element, beauty can never be found
in the absolute unit: variety is its perpetual condition.
Onlly in a relation, a combination of parts, is found that
expression which is its basis.
Oni the other hand, the variety cannot be an unharmonized and discordant variety.  Otherwise, the mind,
unable to reconcile the members in any connection, to
contemplate them as one, is forced back uponI the parts,
and the variety whichl it seemed to have obtained is
again lost. Eachl fragment still stands alone, a stone in
a yet unerected building, and makes only its single impression. It is by the concurrent, and not the conflicting, action of various thiings, that the mind receives a
more powerful impulse than belonged to any of thle parts.
We have now, not a unit, but a unity.  The first is
single in itself, and single in its impression on tllhe
senses; the second is complex in its elements, and complex in its sensuous impression, but one in its action on
mind.  The band of thought has gathered the fagots
into a bundle.  The plan of the architect has led us to
overlook the individual stones in the individual building. This synthesis is, and is felt to be, the triumph of
concordant thoughlt over discordant matter, and in the
extent and perfection of this triumph are found tihe
48 
UNITY NECESSARY.
degrees of beauty. It does not merely aggregate the
power already present in the parts, but establishes a.
new relation therein, creates a new power not before
existent.  Paints pass into paintings, sounds into music,
acts into achievements, and words into character.
Beauty, then, demands variety in its object, since thus
only can there be combination, expression: it demands
unity, since thus only is there combiiationi, thus only is
the sensible made the intellectual, and the diversity of
things the harmony of thought.  The unity is supplied
from within, the diversity is found without iii facts and
objects, and the relation of these two elements we need
to unfold in several directions.
(a.) The variety may often be striking and startling
without at all disturbing the oneness of expression.
The power of the thought is seen in its command of full
and diverse expression.
As the unity now spoken of is only a unity of the
mind's imparting and the mind's receiving, it is evident
that it is not exclusively dependent upon, nor does it
certainly follow, any form of external unity.  It may
consist with resemblance, and it may still more markedly
consist with certain forms of diversity.  Contrast may
carry feeling to its highest intensity; on this condition,
however, that it does not become a conflict of opposite
emotions. The predominating feeling of any work must
have no rival, and yet it may make  a foil of adverse
emotions, and thereby itself be more distinctly felt.
The garden that includes no10 waste within its owni walls,
may yet make us the more sensible of its wealth by the
wild without it. Power finds a simultaneous and double
expression in the rest of the rocky shore, and in the
unceasing, impetuous motionl of the waves that dash
49
D 
LECTURE IV.
upon it.  Repose is inmaged  as plainly ill the silent
mountains uplifted agailist the sky, as in thle shleltered
valleys at their base; fear and despair are as clearly set
forthl in the last thin beams of a winter sun, as in the
cold, dun  clouds  and  unyielding  night which  exti,iguisli thlem.  The deformed  beggars gathered  at the
beautifnl gate of the temple give in brighter relief the
physical. and spiritual power  of the  Apostles.  The
courageous, uldesitating faithl of a leader is seen, not
less in the fickle, fearfnl emotions of those about him,
than in his own repose and strength.  Nature has  not
only many tholghts, but many and most diverse metlhods of uttering the same thought, and a free and powerful variety will hold these at command.   Witnesses to
the same truth will come lup from opposite sides and
from remote kingdoms.  It will not be the power of
objects over the senses, but their power over the intellect, that will assign them their positioi, and the latter
will sometimes  take pleasure in the bold manner in
which sle overrules and contradicts tle former.
.Cause and effect constitute the most sterlni of all the
connections ill the external world; and, as containing
for the mind more of truth than any other, will most
constantly appear as a coiitrolling principle amid all
variety.  That which is a law of thought and order
elsewhere, thouglh present in beauty in a less strict and
obtrusive form, will yet give direction and limitation to
every force.  Our variety will not be a mere fortuity,
a chance-medley, but will everywhere show tlhe stiif'marks of great natural forces. it will be suggestive
of what has preceded it, what is to come after it, and
show where it takes hold onl things  tlhat are.   And
yet the variety of beauty is not bound down to philosoplqTv or at -ral science.
50
I
II 
FFFECT OF SCIENCE ON BEAUTY.
Art, while hleediong science, is constantly transcending
it.  No complex series of causes, even in the physical
world, is so well understood as not to leave most of
its hourly phenomena  inexplicable.   Formn, feature,
color, method, the things wherein expression lurks, are
in their details capable of very little critical knowledge,
and receive but a very general law fronm science. We
know  something of the type, the genieric form, but
very little of the many individual forms unider wl-ichl
it may  appear.   The  painiter does  not find  -iimnself
straitened in the variety of his plants and animals by
observing the most accurate classifications of botany
and zoology. The intuitive power of the reason is left
without the guidance of science in its efforts to apprehlend the symbols of life, and so to comn)ine these, that
they shall freely utitter what it would lhave them utter.
It is not the roughl  work, the meagre outlinie, explained by knowin causes, and reached by tracing these
in  their effects, that give beauty,  but the  faithful
presentation of forces doing a perfect work, — but how
doing it we know not.  InI every department, experience
gives us much in sensible properties and associations
merely; much, therefore, which  art uses with but a
very limited reference to science.
The regions of fancy also stretch beyond  those of
fact, and though the two territories ever so skirt the
one upon the other as to establish a sympathy of laws
and mainers, yet each more wayward dream of the
creative mind can spring up yonder under milder criti cism as in a land not explored or mapped. When we
add to this the fact, that in rational life there is rec ogniized a free-will much less calciilal)le in its results
than cause, - a supernatural element with ever widen
51 
LECTURE IV.
ing relations, - we shall see at once, that the variety,
both in nature and art, which is the basis of beauty, is
not straitened by science; that sculpture is in no danger
of becoming a branch of pllysiology, music of acoustics,
or poetry of philosophy.  The most rigid stratification
is liable to a fault, clouds do not always guarantee a
storm, nor the beginning of life forecast its end.
Knowledge, in its rapid advancement, far from crippling, becomes a convenienlt law to the imagination,
making it more chaste, truthful, and rational, and itself assigning formt and meaning to much which would
otherwise be to art formless and meaningless.  A wider
recognition of truth, far from restricting beauty, fills
the world with new  and marvellous suggestions, and
makes the little that is known, amid the much that
remains unknown, most quickening to the imagination,
declarative of a most subtile and pervasive power.  The
truths of cause and effect, of science rarely limiting
variety, will often unite, in most compact and powerfuLl expression, things before thought too diverse or accidental for any convergence.   We  are in danger of
knowing, not too much, but too little, for the highest
impression of objects.   The unknown is to the mind
the confused, the chaotic; and only as knowledge moves
through  it revealing tlouglt, plan, expression,  can
beauty follow, taking possession of it as a conquered
realm.
(b.) The unity in which variety is contained is not
always equally strict.  It is true, that the power of
the expression must depend on the singleness of the
thought which links the parts, and its entire control
of each of them; but much that is beautiful is rather
a harmony of many pleasant impressions, than a compact, forcible rendering of a single expression.
52
f
I 
STRICT. ESS OF UNITY.
The unity secured is oftener that of the genus than
of the species. The landscape contains a thousand pleasing things: more  rarely it combines  them, subordinating part to part in a single unique and vigorous
expression.   The mind seeks after, and takes  an especial delight in, the higher, stricter unity of one governing element, but gratefully accepts a concord of
agreeable things. In proportion as the space decreases,
and the things presented become fewer, the mind claims
an increase of unity, and this for three reasons.   It
seems more readily secured.   Some of the objects in
a wide field may be more restive, more stubbornly diverse; but as these diminiiish, tile ease with which a
uniting thought is found increases.  The very fact also
of this narrowness, this singleniess of the group, seems
to imply that all parts must share common circuimstances and impulses. If the group is one of meil,
and passion is present, it must be the same for all; if
of plants, the conditions of life must be alike to all. A
third reason is, that, in proportion as things partially
diverse are crowded  together, the diversity is made
more apparent, and creates in the mind either the conflict of opposites or the confusion of the unarranged.
A series of pailitilngs may do what one cannot be made
to do.  A park may contain what cannot in mniniature
be successfully represented in a garden.
(c.) Nature, amid an illimitable variety, preserves
the unity of her work by a constant repetition, under
specific differences, of generic forms and colors; under
individual differences, of specific forms and colors.  Tlhe
basis of her beauty and her science is the same. That
which is classification  to the intellect is harmony  and
rhythm to the emotions. As unity has two conditions,
53 
LECTURE IV.
agreement and differences, it lhas also two  opposito
dangers, sameness  and  confusion; the monotolny of
identical formis mechanically repeated, the disorder of
variable forms endlessly shifted. Between these, nature
preserves her safe path, never leaving her parts involved
b)evond tlhe mind's grasp in the chaos of materials and
elements, nor yet reducing them to block  and brick
work, to dead surfaces and unbroken angles.   Each
species of tree has its own typical form, involving, with
much  variety, so  many, and such  undistingnishable
thillgs as to escape description, and yet returning with
so much uniformity to certain lines and relations, as
never to escape the disciplined eye.  With or without
foliage, near by or remote, the ash, the maple, the liiiden, reveal themselves, and yet leave the mind unable
to explain the certaility of its own conIvictionI.  So, also,
is it with the relation of fibres in the several kinds of
wood.  Small fragments, wheni cut in different methods,
and from  different portions of the tree, disclose amid
themselves a great variety of surface, yet all of them
have the indefinable additional stamp of their species.
The leaf repeats the specific, but never tlhe individual
form.  The bough, while branchinig in obedience to the
life of tlhe tree, also has a peculiar office to fulfil.  The
tree, while knowing and feeling the method of its class,
rememb)ers also the new conditions under which the old
problem  is to be solved, and grows up as distinct and
individual as if it were the only representative of the
tribe. The forest, while gathering into its ranks trees in
all tlheir varieties, disposes the several kinds so spariiigly,
so in reference to eaclh other, and by resemblance of
hlabits, as never to confound the mind  or suffer the
wealth of its resources to degenerate into prodigality.
54
I
I
I 
UNITY IN NATURlE.
It never wastes, ill the wantonness of the hour, that
reserved power by which wood and forest are distinguished from each other, and made new chapters in the
vegetable kingdom. A similar sameness and variety of
forms are traceable ill hills and mountains, and thus in
the landscape of which these are controlling features.
What has now been illustrated in form may be seen in
color in the plumage of birds.  So numerous are birds,
so little accessible to the senses, so migratory ill their
habits, that here, especially, is variety liable to lapse
into confusion. Proportionately decided and firm is
the principle by which unity is preserved. WTe have
exactness of color as well as exactness of form. The
individual does, indeed, within the limits of tle species
find minor shades of difference, but these limits are carefully marked and watchfully guarded.  Color, though
of great variety and richness of pattern, with many most
elaborate and specific markings, is no10 longer that vacillating thing we often find it elsewhere, but becomes a
most obvious and unmistakable mark of the class, and
thus of the habits and character, of the bird. Without
this mark, all would become confusion, even to  the
more careful student; withl it, all is order to the coinmparatively careless observer. In domestic fowls, where
no such danger of confounding species exists, this principle of unity is relaxed, and variety is enlarged through
every shade and combination of colors. The variety of
individuals, wlhen it would elndanlger, to the eye at least,
the distinction of species, is restricted, and its place
supplied by a most marked variety of species firinly preserved.  \When, however, the species is unmistakable,
as in the dove and the hen, and sameness is ready to become ail ulnmeanilng imonotony, color ceases to be stable,
55 
LECTURE IV.
and, from black to white, from red to violet, ranges
tllrough the spectrum.
(d.) We have reserved till now the distinctioni be tween beauty, grandeur, and sublimity, since it can
be best considered ill connection with unity and variety.
These three are but distinctions under thle generic term
beauty; certain more marked  alld peculiar formls of
beauty being distiniguislhed by the names grandeur alid
subliniity.  That  beauty and sublimity  are but two
extremes, the lower and higher manifestations of the
same qualities, is evident firom  many examples.  The
peacefully flowilng river is beatutiful; as it gathers impulse and purpose, and rushes oil in rapids it becomes
g,rad; wieen, shivered and wild with motion, it leaps
the cataract in eager masses, it is sublime.  By an imperceptible transition and growtlh of expression, we have
passed from simple beauty to sublimity.   An increase of
dimenisions imparts grandeur ill architecture, and the
stretch of even a naked desert may impress 1us with a
kindred feeling.  A character shaped Upon truth is beautiful; standing upon truth amid the violence of enemies, is grand; adhering to truth amid tle derision of
friends, and in defiance of the rack and the fagot, is
sublime.  It is usually said that power is the essential
expression of all sublime objects.  To make this true,
the word must include much more than mere phlysical
power.  Duration, magnitutde, any beautiful expressioll
whlich enlarges and overpowers the mind in its apprellielsion, may become sublime.  It is the fidliess and
force of the expression always implying power, and often
its direct utterance, that excite this miore intense and
elevated emotion.   Strictly speaking, there are three
directions ini whichll tllhe mid may be outstripped by
56
t
f
1 
SUBLIMITY.
the expression: ill space, which is magnitude; in time,
which is duration; ill intensity, which is power; and
these will together or independently give rise to the
sublime.
In a sublime object the unity of the expression is
great, and also the variety. There is no doubt or division in the impression, thofigh it arises from  so many
points, and so intensely from each that the mind is unable to estimate it.  The variety, though  united to our
apprehension and feeling, escapes the judgment, and
leaves the mind overpowered by the sense of its fulness.
Arithmetic is vanquished, and power as an unmeasured
magnitude presses upon the feelings. As long as the
sources of expression are calculable and measurable,
the mind remains in a more quiet and composed attitude, but when it is sensible that these are escaping it, are
overwl-elining it, that it is in the midst of that which
bespeaks the unmeasured and the infinite, it is lifted up,
and, according to the original force of the word, becomes sublime. The impression of the sublime, then,
is due to the escape of variety, though in connection
with the most intense unity, from the judgment, the
mind's measurements.
There are several considerations which tend to establish this view. Iii a tranquil ocean, there is great sameness of parts, and we do not receive the impression of
sublimility from a limited surface. Teii acres or a square
mile of ocean has no hold uponl the heart. It is only
when the sky dips to the water, and the two pass out
together, that the mind falters in its pursuit, and is
made to feel how all things elude its senses. Here the
variety which the judgment has not estimated is made
utip of an endless repetition of similar parts, and the ex
57
II
iI
II
i
i
3 -, 
LECTURE IV.
tent must be all the greater in proportion as this sameness aids the mnind's action.  A  desert farln is one
thing; a desert continent quite another.
Oii the other hand, when the ocean is wakeful to the
winds, and every foot of surface is a shifting and perpetual strife, shrouded in its own spray of battle, the
minid is easily overtasked, and a narrow vista opened
through the mist gives it more than it canll apprehend.
Here, the variety, having more of diversity, readily
escapes the apprehension, and, in a comparatively limited field, produces the impression of sublimity.
It has been foulnd that order is sometimes favorable
to the sublime; at other times, disorder.  Al  army produces the impression by its order; the mountain range
by its disorder, - its traces of volcanic action.  This
similarity of effects from apparently opposite causes is
yet due to the same'principle.  It is only the aggregate
movement of men that can have in- it so much power as
to startle the mind.   Order here, therefore, serves to
intensify and bring out the expression, and is thus its
only hope of sublimity; without order, the mind is left
to contemplate individuals; with order, it contemplates
an army.
Oni the other hand, confusion and disorder amid the
elements of nature, regarded as all obedient to one force,
disturb the mind in its estimate of that force, and
cause it to be more readily overpowered with a sense
of magnitude.  -In the onie case, the parts are distinct,
and it is only by their combination in so large a whole
as to tax the apprehension, that they can reach sublimity.  In the other, all objects are under the dominioni
of one force,.and this eludes us the more readily by the
irregularity of its action. TJie sublime is aided in two
18
t
i
t
f
i
i
I. 
ABSOLUTTE AND RELAT\!E BEAUTY.
directions, either by that which multiplies the power,
-this order sometimes does; or by that which emb)arrasses the mind inii its apprehension of that power,this confusion and darkness frequently do. In either
case, the principle is the same, - a multiplication of
parts either in sameness or diversity escaping the minid's
estimates. It should be remembered, that inii the expression variety and unity, variety may sometimes meani
niotling more than multiplicity, -a repetition of simnilar parts.
(e.) There remains another distinction often made,
and best discussed in this comnection; that of absolute
and relative beauty. Some things are spoken of as
absolutely beautifutl, - beautiful in themselves; others,
as relatively beautiful,- beautiful in their connections
with other objects.  This distinction does not seem to
be well taken.  All beauty is a beauty of relations of
parts gathered into a whole. We may subdivide the
object under consideration, and make of it several dis
tiict ol)jects, or unite it with others and make of it a
still more complex ob)ject. But, in each case, the ob)ject,
whlether a landscape, a tree in the landscape, or a flower
on the tree, is beautiful'or otherwise through the relation of its parts. Each object, the flower, the tree, the
landscape, is complex, contailing members, and also as
a member is included in that which is higher.  Wheni
I pronounce the flower beautiful, but the tree, of which
it is a part, deformed, there is no conflict in my judgments.  In each it is a question of relations, and while
the right relations are found in the one object, they are
not found in the other. The awkward position of the
flower on the tree is a question of the beauty of the
tree, and not of the flower. Many objects are complex,
59 
LECTrURE IV.
including parts distinct and  complete in themselves,
and these yet other parts. If we start with the simplest
whole, and pass up  to the most inclusive whole, we
shall find a series of distinct questions propounded, each
involving new principles of arralngement, and capable
of a distinct answer.  Fromi lowest to highlest, lhowever,
all is relative beauty, if we understand by this expression the beauty of relations; all, absolute, intrilnsic (
beauty, if we understand by this a beauty in its condi- 
tions wholly interior to the object considered.  There is
another class of objects, of which the parts are not all 
of them complete in themselves, but dependent on their
combination for expression.   Such are some  of the
members of a building.  These are not whloles, a,nd
have no10 beauty save as parts of a whole. 
There are yet other objects which lhave, or should
have, throughout, strict reference to a specific end.
Of this class are all buildings.  These it may be thiought
may lhave beauty in themselves, - may please the eye, 
and, considered  in reference to the end for which
they were erected, have an additional beauty, and that 
the first may be conveniently termed absolute, aid the
second, relative beauty.  But no building can be judged,
as a whole, as a building, without knowing the end
for which it was built. This it was which called for
the structure,- which gave law to the structure, which
was everywhere in it as a plan and a purpose.  It is a
meaningless pile without  the interpretationi of this end,
- this aimn of labor, - and only becomes an expressive
and beautiful thing as this object of rational effort, and
the fulless and felicity with which it has been reached,
are seen. It is not the eye, but the mind, that judges
the work, and its inquiries at once are, What the object?
and, How reached?
60 
BEAUTY IN ARCHITECTURE.
If the building has no beauty in its relation to an
end, it has no beauty as a building. There may still
be certain parts which can be considered separately, and
pronounced beautiful, but the dwelling, the church, and
the cathedral are what they are only in view of the end
they subserve and the feeling that gives rise to them.
We cannot, therefore, here have an absolute which
is not a relative beauty.   The question of beauty is
one,- Is the building as a building beautiful? -and
for the right answering of this, all the relations and
objects of the building must be understood.
61
, 
LECTURE V
THIRD CONDITION OF BEAUTY, TRUTH. - IMITATIONS. - TRU-!ITl
DEFINED. - CONNECTIONS OF NATURE AND ART. - THE
IDEAL.
A THIRD characteristic of beauty is truth. This assertion, however, is only applicable to art, since nature
is our standard of truth, and all natural beauty necessarily possesses this quality. So various and vague are
the notions attached to the phrase Truth in art, that
we shall not be able to make satisfactory progress without carefully defining its several meanings.
Some reference of art to nature, -- somie agreement
of our conceptions with facts, -is supposed to be ineluded in the words, tlholugh  the precise  connection
intended, of man's creations with those of the external
world is not seeln.
A common meaning of the true is that by which it is
confounded with the best, the noblest, the right.  Iii
this sense, to say that truth is a characteristic of beauty,
may be either to utter the truism, that that wlichl is baest
or beautiful is best or beautiful; or if, proceeding more
wvittingly, we first define whalt is tle best, the noblest,
the true, and afterward call this beautiful, it may Ue
to perform the work already unldertaken by us in shlowing what that is in expression which is beautiful. Of
the true, then, as employed to designate that which is
correct or high-tonied in expression, we have no further
occasion to speak.
I 
I
(
II
I 
WHAT UXPE RSTOOn rY TRUTH.
A  second meaning of truth is, that which excludes
falsehood from art, and suffers no surface work to indicate, either in structure or material, that whichl- does n6t
exist beneath it.  In this signification, the true is the
genuine, and is especially at war with reneerings, paints,
stuccos, frescoes, and cast ornaments; at least, so far as
they purport to be other than what they are. Al eiiconraogement of these makes deception anl end of art.
and naked imitation its means, thus destroying  the
artist; gives rise to pretence, ostentation, and  ail;rr
grounded self-satisfaction in the employer of art, this
degrading him from the patron of virtuous taste to the
pander of a false and foolish vanity; and reduces the
enjoyment of art to the detection of a clever resoienblance, leaving the critic now pleased with  his own
acuteness, now  chlagrined  by his failure to discover
the imposture.
It should certainly be an important principle  with
the lover of art to prefer the genuine to the false, a plain
and substantial reality to elaborate and unsubstantial
ornament; but so far have these surface dressings now
entered into art as to render their exclusion both iiidesirable and impossible.  Architecture is alone affecte(1 by them; and as this is primarily a useful art, ruled
by economic principles, and only secondarily a fine art,
it can never be made  entirely amenable to the laws
of the latter.  It is evident, however, that all finish
which is intended to suggest what does not really exist
should be carefully excluded from lighl and valuable
art, from pul)lic and molnumental architecture.  Let us,
at least, knowv tlat that wlich claims to be good is lhonest; that that which arrogates merit is not a bold lie,
cli,ileniging detectioni; that the people have not combiied to do )both a weak and a false tlli~.
6,OD
.' 
LECTUPREI', V.
In domestic architecture, on the other hand, which
is expected to be more temporary, claims less for itself,
and must be more economic, veneers and imitations will
always play an important part, and this, too, without
detriment to the taste of a people, if one or two things
are remembered. The radical difficulty with this method of workmanship is the deception aimed at. It is
this which rives rise to pretence and ostentation on one
side, and disappointment and contempt on the other.
Our true success, then, in this kind of art is not, as is
sEcpposed, in a completeness of imitation which misleads
the mind,- and fortunately the supposed perfection is
unattainable by most workmen, -but in an agreeableness of design and success of execution which, while
pleasing, yet reveal themselves for what they truly are.
Paint has not the best effect when it is thought to be
good stone or the native wood, but when it is seen to be
paint well put on. It then does all honest, valuable,
and praiseworthy work.  While the veining of wood
may suggest a pattern, that graining is best which gives
rise to no doubt, but in itself and in its relations at
once shows that it is graining.
An agreeable impression may undoubtedly be secured
by a cheap yet permanent surface work, and it would
certainly be foolish to throw away papers and paints,
which relieve and cheer the eye in every dwelling, because what is represented by them is often not real; nor
is it difficult to draw important practical distinctions
between the right and wrong methods of using these
materials.
(a.) That which reveals its own nature is to be preferred to that whose success is dependent on a suggestion of something better than itself. Imitation should
ifi
0-4
f 
IMITATIONS.
be turned aside from entire resemblance, and those features which mark the nature of the material be suffered,
nay, made to appear freely. Ironl-work will ever show
itself to be iron, unless most assiduously disguised. A
casting will naturally distinguish itself from a carving,
and this it should ever be suffered to do.
The parts of the design must always be heavier and
better sustained in stone, than when wrouglht in the tenlacious fibres of ironil. The inherent strength of the one
material tends to a lightness of pattern quite impossible
with the other. The more markedly every material
possesses and wears its own characteristics, the better is
it, and there is no so sure way of destroying both the
higher and the lower, as a constant effort on the part of
the one to assume tlie forms and draw to itself the attention which can only properly belong to the other.
(b.) That which is genuinie should not be mingled
with that which is imitative. Tis is oftenii done on
purpose to aid the deception, and must always have the
effect to confuse the mind, and render it suspicious.
Such a method is opposed to the frank, open spirit already urged, which everywhere avows its material by its
manner of treatment.
(c.) That which is inaccessible and beyond our judgment should be in kind like that near at hand.'  No impression is more Ulnfortunate than that our action will
turn into an indolent subterfuge the moment it is out
from under inspection.  It is better to make the deception elaborate, place it where it may be examined, and
defv detection, than to hide a cheap and lazy imitation
in the distance, and tlienl affirmn it to be gelnuinie by a
witness near at hand.  The spectator, when discovering
the character of such work, feels that he has not beenii
E
65
I
I 
LECT'URE V.
cheated by the cunning of the artist, but by his sheer,
shirking dishonesty.
If these principles are regarded, an inability success fully to carry imitation into deception, and custom tell ing us what to expect, and in what places, will do the
rest, and the various methods of surface treatment will
be as genuilne as any work in wood or stone, for they
will only indicate what they really are. They may,
also, well be the more dear to us, because they give
early play to the fancy, and, accessible to all, are the
modest adornments of the homes of the many.   That
truth which acknowledges its material  which honors
the geinuine, which marks the imitative as such, is an
element of all correct taste.
This mealling of truth is, however, subordinate to yet
another meaning employed in questions of art, the one
more immediately referred to in speaking of it as a
clharacteristic of beauty.   This is an agreement between
the signs and symbols of art and those of nature.  The
language of the two must be the same.   What we have
seen in the actual world must interpret what we see in
the ideal world, and what is here present must l have the
fulness and force of what we have elsewhere felt.  It is
this common speech of art and nature, - this use of
the same forms and colors, the same traces of life and
indices of feeling, - that makes them one in their hold
on the mind, and renders it impossible to enter into thie
first, save through the gateway of the second.
The plans in nature, while elaborate and varied, are
sternly self-consistent, are, within the limits slhe herself has defilued, forever the same. Each kind of tree
has its own method of branching, each trunk its own
bark-surface, each rock its own fracture, each moss its
66
I
I 
TRUTH DEFINED.
own pattern.  Truth in all representation lies ill the
knowledge of these; and in representing them, — we
are not limited to a fact, but to facts, not to a form, but
to a method: and he who knows, neither by observation nor inspiration, how nature works, cannot himself work. No origination of symbols is open to the
artist: he speaks as God has spoken from the begiililng. There is but one alphabet of beauty, and that is
found in nature.   The relation of art to nature we
must unfold more fully.
The first condition of beauty was given as expression.
This is funidamental, it is that whlicl-h underlies beauty,
and comes out in it.  The second was stated to be
unity in variety, or, more simply, unity. This is not
something ill addition to expression, but the method
of that expression, that without which expression itself
is not beautiful.  The third is now given as truth. This
again is subordinate to, and modifies, the expression
unity was its method, truth is its means.  It is utterance through natural and real, not tllrough artificial
and arbitrary signs.   The expression stands in most
immediate connection withl things and facts, and thus is
true.  Beautiful expression in art is the unity of true
signs in the utterance of worthy emotion.  Nature iii
her work gives us the metlhod, and  our adhlerence
must be faithful, -   ives us the language of all dead
and living forces, and our use of this must be, to the
last degree, accurate.
Two thingis may seem to contradict this assertion,the conventional and grotesque in art, and the arbitrary
signs exclusively employed in poetry.
Tihe conventional is that which by tacit agreement
stands for something which it is not in itself able to
67 
68l                   i
68 
represent. It especially appears in the carvings of
architecture, where the completed form of the plant or
animal escaping the chlisel, a few strongly wrought lines
take the place of finished work.  The conventional,anid the same is true of the grotesque,   if wholly arbitrary, is not of itself beautiful, and becomes a mere
inenber, like a moulding, to be judged solely by its
relations, -by the general effect.  It has no agreement, more or less, with nature, and hencee there is no
opportunity for truth.  If, lhowever, it boldly strikes at
the reality, it may then become a curt truth, worthy in
itself of consideration, tlhough itnable to tell all that
might have been told.  Intrinsic beauty here, however,
as elsewhere, is dependent on the faithfulness of what
is done, be it more or less.
In poetry, the signs are, indeed, wholly arbitrary; but
the beauty is not in these, or what they present to the
eye, but in the images presented througlh them to the
mind, and these images must be faithful.
Rhythm, and a certain agreement of sounds with the
thought,n may enhance the effect to the ear, but only because there now begins to spring up a resemblance to
the real,-  a somewhat obscure truth.  So far as poetry
is representative, the necessity of truth is as great here
as elsewhere.  The possible, the probable, are counterparts of the real, and reached throughl it; and these
assign limits to all poetic presentation, be it epic or dramatic, lyric or descriptive. Things that are, are facts;
things that may be, are truths. Botlh contain the same
principles, the same laws of being and action, the same
appeal to the thoughtful mind, -the one, because it is;
the other, through its agreement with that which is, because it utters the same lessons and the same laws.
IECTURE V.
I
f
f
I 
TRUTH IN POETRY.
Thle one contains beyond the other only the single item
of a precise, historic existence.  The actual, in its accidents, in its names and dates, has appeared but oncei
in its essentials, it is constantly reappearing, repeating
itself at intervals everywhere through the complex pat-,"
tern woven ill the same loom under similar conditions.This it is which gives to the real its value, converting
facts into principles and history into philosophy.  This
also is the truth of poetry. In emotion it utters that
which may be, that, therefore, which a thousand times
has been, and, in this its mastery of the actual, rules
the heart.   There is more truth in that which may
often be, than in that which is known to have been but
once.  There is little value ill ally conception which
has not that agreement with facts which makes it possible, probable, truthful.
Architecture is, in many particulars, not a representative art, and is, therefore, having no counterpart or
standard in nature, to be judged by its own effect. Tihe
same is true, in a yet higher degree, of music. Truth,
then, as a characteristic of beauty, must not only be
limited to the fine arts, but yet further limited to those
which have a correspondence or resemblance to nature,
-that is, primarily, to poetry, painting, and sculpture.
It is in connection with these arts, and the quality of
truth belonging to them, that we can best apprehend
the relation of the real to the ideal,- of nature to art.
The field which nature occupies she occupies net to the
exclusion of man, but for his instruction and (,-iidallce.
Though much in the world of living forms is not complete, the suggestion of completeness is everywhere
present. The mind is not suffered to feel that it perfects a plan which the Architect of the world was not
69 
LECTURE V.
able to perfect, -that it discovers the failing strength
of an art grand indeed in its rudiments, but unfinished,
- and is called iiin,to complete the too great undertfaking.  The execution is not pushed to a point at which
the colnception fails, but the outlines and plans are ever
in advance of the work; and man, as a journeyman
artist, is employed in the study and realization of these.
IHtuman genius, however powerful its command of beautifutl forms, adds no new species either to the animal or
the vegetable kingdom, -  no new phases either to land,
water, or cloud scenery. Its strength is fully tasked in
the study and mastery of that boundless variety already
present. The expression in nature is so manifold and
powerful as more than to occupy the mind in its acquisition,- as more than to meet its utmost demand in
bodying forth its own emotions; and man has thus
neither ability nor occasion to add to the resources of
westhetical feeling laid open to him in the world of physical forces. The office of art is, here, not the invention
in elements of that which is new, but the fresh and
powerful use of that which is old, -of that which is
familiar, of that whose power passes under the hourly
observation of men.
Nature is the source of beauty, and our guide in
its pursuit, since she gives us, in all their variety, the
forms under which inorganic and organic forces in the
progress of a creative plan present themselves   The
first steles in representative art are a full possession
of all th, facts in the department considered, of what
in nature is there uttered, and of the method in which
it is uttered. It is no more possible to be eloquent
to the heart through the eye without a careful realization of color and form, than to reach it through the
70 
THE IDEAL AND REAL
ear without the vocables of familiar speech. Art must
be strictly and protractedly imitative, till it has mastered the symbols through which it works; and that
art will be most powerful which has best learned this
its first lesson; that has put itself in complete possession of the only means through w;hich it can afterward express its own feelings.   These means  of expressioni, which are forla and color as existing ill nature,
we have spoken of as the signs, letters, symbols, rudiments, elements of art, ill order that we might by these
words mark the extent of the analysis which should
take place ill the study of the external world.
He who copies a single scene is strictly and solely
imitative. adds nothing to what he has received, and
is measured by it.  The accurate sketch of a landscape, the painting of a portrait, imply skill, but no
more creative power than the rehearsal of an oration.
A step beyond this is to discern the beauty of single
features in the objects presented, and, retaining these,
to reproduce them in new  combinationis.   Here the
same sort of taste is employed in selecting and rearranging the material as in using thie thoughts of
others. It is not, however, till the mind has gone
further, and seen ill each form the law and method
of the force which gave rise to it,- has seized its characteristics, and is able to reproduce it in a member
or in a whole with something of the freedom and boldness of nature, who scorns to imitate or repeat herself,
-that it has power over the means with which it may
itself work.   Such an art may paint landscape, without painting a laniidscape, -manl, and not a man. It
has the breadth of the species, and not the limitations
of the individual, and while impersonlating its own
71 
LECTURE V.
ideas, does so with the double  range  before its eye
of tle           actual and the possible, of the seen  and  the
suggested.   This is to analyze expression into its e]e uieiits, and, by the mastery of these, to hold the key
of             all     combinations, both  old and  new.  This is at
olnc e         to retllink the thought of the writer, to bring to
it the resources of a full vocabulary, and thus to make
it        forever oine's own in possession and in use.  It is ail
agreemenlt  of art with  nature, in  elements, in  the
changing  types of form and color, full and various as
tlhese  a re, that conlstitittes truth, and makes it infinlitely
more  tltai imitation.   Truth  is only fully present,
wilic i       tlhat power is possessed to wlich imitation is a
meains, and  wlien, therefore, imitatioii is. ready to be
laid     aside.  To copy a rock, plant, or aiiimal is olne
tliii4g;        to distinguish   between its specific  anLd iiidividual characteristics, and to retain the one whlile ever
varyilig the other, is a much highller thing.   Aul art
tlhat does this is truthful: its productions fall into the
classes of science, and belong to the cabinet, and not
to tlle museum.
The first gift, tlheni, of nature to art is the symbols
of expression employed in works of beauty, through
whose study and imitation they are acquired.
The second is the beauty conferred in external objects.  The Divinle tlhouight, the Divine idea, is coIntaiiied in these; and as the perfection of the end ald
of the means is discerned, as the conception is seen
workiing itself out in successfiul and spoltaneous completioli, thle mind is awakened to beauty, and receives
her most choice and safe instructions.   In tlhe same
scliool in wlhich  the elements  of expressioln  are acquired, tllhe inventive power is so quickened and trained
72
I 
VARIETY IN NATURE.
as to possess that which it may utter.  It is in the
studio of nature, in the presence of forces ever expending themselves, ever renewing themselves ill beautiful forms, that art catches its inspiration, and finds
its own energies of feeling fostered into creative power.
The third gift of nature arises partly from what
may be termed the defect of her execution, and still
more from the variety and fulnless of beauty which
sloe shows possible in all departments. Beauty ill the
external world is unprotected from accident, is left
opeln, especially in man, to the trespass of the stern
laws of retribution and the dire necessities of sin.  It
thus suggests much to the mind which itself does not
reach, and gives to man an ideal in advance of the
fact. Toward this ideal, man labors in joyful though
hopeless pursuit, since each attainment does but enable
lhim to enlarge, to perfect in conception the thing to
be attained. This ideal is an angelic guide, with whom
man travels an endless road between two antipodes,
the imperfect and the perfect, the human and the
divine. With only the real, man were stationary, but
filding everywhere the suggestionii of a better ideal,
puLrsuinig this, he becomes progressive.
The variety of expression open to effort concurs to
the same effect. Beautiful objects are not all graduated to one scale.  There is 1no optimism, excellency
is shared among compeers. Beauty is not a balanced
abridgment of universal virtue, but is the lustre of
single virtues. While the mind delights in this or
that expression, it does not thereby exclude from its
pleasures even the counter expression.   It presents
as many slhifting phases of feeling as the sky diverse
forms of clouds. The variety in nature, while grati
4
73
r 
LECTURE V.
fying the mind, does not exhaust its power, and there
still remain emotious which it would utter in its own
way. The unceasuig changes about it only teach it
the power and scope of its materials, and these it
makes haste to use in a kiudred freedom of spirit.
Nature, then, both in her defect and variety, teaches the
mind to love and utter its own ideals, - ideals' which
perpetually enlarge before it, as it sees more of the
force and vigorous methods of ie beauty working
in nature, more of the Divine idea of facts, more of
the goal prophetically present in man, - ideals with out which there would be possible no iiidepeiident or
valuable workmaiiship to maii, 110 morneutum of progress carrying him by a hair's breadth beyond the
aetnal. The ideal is but the impulse received in our
movements through the real, expended in the world
of thought, and there wrought into that higher coIl
ception for which abue training and discipline are
givell. Without this mo[nentnm of the mind which
reveals itself in new ideas,'all scholarship would be acmilsition, all kuowledge, memory, all progress, patient
trudging along the oiie thoroughfare of thought.
There are present in nature, -
(a.) Ideas, creating and arranging thought, - a feel
mg workiug itself out in happy and benevolent execu
tion; aud
(b.) Facts, things, often deficient, always varied, -
now beautiful, now looking to a higher beauty some
There are in man,
(a.) Al appreciation of the facts in nature, - of the
execution there present;
(b.) Of the suggestion in nature of the impulse which
74
I
f 
THE RE,LATlIONS OF NATURPE AND ART.
It but partially obeys, partially completes.   There,
thus an ideal, an idea, a forming thought, furnished to
man, and, at the same time, in the mastery of real symbols, a means, a material, on which this thought may
work, in which it may realize itself.
Truth is the agreement of these symbols, these methods, with those of nature; and by it the works of man,
no longer fantastic, are made akin to those of God, are
truthls in that they repeat the same great laws, and are
but phases of the forces which work the world. The
ideal of man working itself out truthfully becomes, as
it were, a new and most signiiacant fact amid the facts
of nature,-  working itself out nobly, becomes a new
and redeeming fact amid the facts of nature. The artist taught by nature works with nature, rescues her
from colitravening and hostile forces, adds to her variety, and, seizing her best thoughts, labors on them in
statute and painting.
Landscape gardening, an art presentative rather than
representative, will furnish us a closing illustration of
natutre's treatment of main. By a skilful use of plants,
shrubs, and trees, almost any spot can be greatly ornamented.   The valley, grove, and brook-side, though
beautiful, are not as beautiful as they may readily be
made to be; and man is encouraged to effort both by
the means fiurnished and the necessity imposed. There
is sufficient beauty present in the untrained growth to
call out his taste, and awaken his desires; and in the
same instant a labor is imposed upon him, if he would
employ and perfect the material ready to his hand.
Nor is this all: nature refuses her own wild beauty
to one who fails to train and culture it. Every place
becomes better or worse under the hand of manl. All 
LECTURE V.
lioxious weeds-  slovenly and ragged in habit, offensiVe ill odor, rank ill growth, prolific ill generatioln, with
burred seed-vessel catching to man and beast -  gather
about and hunt down the sluggard,   avengers of nature's wrong.   These make  an admonition of every
neglected home, and, nodding ill unseemly, unprofitable growth about the cheerless dwelling, seem to say,
"Out of thine own mouth I condemn thee, and complete thine owni work."
There is no spot so void of beauty, so utterly deformed, as the ilnkept abode of manl.  It forfeits the
rugged yet chaste beauty of nature, and is smothered
with the teeming ugliness which its own filth engeilders.
I
iL
II
i,  
ifi
LECTURE VI.
SYMBOLS OF EXPRESSION. - FORM. - COLOR.-LIGHT AND
SHADE. - MOTION. - SOUND.
BEAUTY, as a primary, ulnderived quality, is incapable
of a definition, and we have contented ourselves, therefore, with pointing out some of the conditions of its
presence, - that in objects which is its occasion. The
first given was expression, -a thought and feeling, an
idea. But, as the expression itself is not the beauty,
neither does all expression give rise to beauty, we endeavored to show further what, in plan and idea, have
this additional power over the mind, quickening it to
a new and most pleasurable perception.
The second condition given was unity, - a quality
of expression by which it becomes a complete, in all
its parts a concurrent, sentiment.  The last condition
stated, and one more restricted than either of the others, was truth. Nature has a method in which her
ideas arc uttered, under which her orderly forms act.
Truth in art is an accurate concurrence of method with
that found in corresponding  facts.  True art can always find both corresponding facts and corresponding
methods, — corresponding facts, because its ideal has
arisen under the suggestion and in the pathway of
nature; corresponding methods, because it has been
taught all its symbols by nature.
What these symbols are, what the things which to 
,E('L,'-E VI.
thie senses betoken and convey the idea, we shall now
iniquire. It is evident, that all these symbols of thlougight,
and signs'of feeling, must  be such as present themselves to the senses, since beauty inheres in ol)jects
and actions, and these become  subjects of contemplation through  the senses, or the  imagination;, acting,
uic!er the law of the senses.  It is also evident tl,t
our several senses will be avenues to these signs only
as they are capable of a  clear presentation of the
complex  and  the combined.   The  eye has, in this
respect, the greatest power, and therefore becomes
the chief medium of beautiful impressions. The ear,
through language, gives to the inner eye of imaginationii the reflection and counterpart of external vision,
and thus indirectly becomes  a dependent, secondary
avenue to beauty.   In music, the sense of hearing
opens a direct inlet to a distinct and full department
of expression.  The other senses drop abruptly below
these two, are so single and local in the sensations
which they confer, so lose their burden in the organ,
and transfer so little to the intellect, and are so overborne and displaced by the higiher organs, as not to be
the instruments of taste.
The eye, the great highway of the mind, takes cognizance in extreme analysis of several distinct things.
Form is here the first great means of expression,
tile most  immediate  and  inevitable product of  all
arranging tlhought.   Form  is here used in its fullest
siignification, and includes not merely outlines, but
superficies in all their tracings and irregularities.   Expression, in opaque bodies at least, is limited to surfaces, to the arrangement of parts on these, and of
these in reference to each other.  Beauty, as veining,
78
I
I
I
i
i
i
I
i
II 
FORATM.
does in.deed penetrate some bodies, but it only becomc
manifest beallty by their section or cleavage.
Alatter being given, thire very first action of force is
indicated by a change of form, and thle nature of the
resulting form is our only index of the character of
tle force, and of the tloughlt which set the force in
motion.  Entire irreglilarity is confusion, is chaos, and
a change from  irregularity to irregularity is aimless
and barren.  An appreelnsible form is the first product
of creating power, which, the elements of matter  all
present, is nothilog but arranging power.   The more
simple and mathematical the form, - for mathematics,
in all its pride, reaches but first principles in the figures and curves which it discusses, and in the powers
of natlure whlose action these restrict,- the more limited and rudimental is the force, and the more simple
tle idea indicated.  The crystal and the sphere, which
niay be said to be the fitliiess of geometry, are reached
in an instant, and everywhere  are primal forms in
nature's action.  So restricted in  expression are all
regllar figures, that but two arts employ them to any
coisiderable extent, landscape gardening and arclitecture; tlhe first, in any liighl state, always escaping into
tlat which is fireer and fuller; the second, though
sternly circumscribed by its material and uses, yet, for
its tracery and ornament, ever reacling up into the
hirler realms of aiimate nature.
As  form  feels, betrays, and measures  every movemcent, every advance, of the creative tlhouglht, it must
instantly become  mnore complex as this gathers scope
and power, -  as the plani begins to include more, and
tle parts, staindinog in broader ad mnore numerous reia tions, to suffer more modifcatiols.  Complexity of formr 
9
LFECTURE VI.
rill be measured by complexity of uses, - the number
of offices performed by the instrument, the number of
changes wrought in or with the machine. The instrument is more graceful than the machine, as more compact and single. God's work in nature is instrumental
ratlher than mechanical.  The body is rather the mind's~
instrument than the mind's machine; the plant, the
agent of a living principle, than a manufactory of vegetable acids.
These two thoughlts borne in mind,- that, with each
advance of plan through the range of life, vegetable,
animal, and rational, there is ever a more complex end,
wider relations, and also a more immediate, instrumental, and personal use, by each living principle, of its
own forces and organs,- and we shall at once see that
form, in happy obedience to these new and numerous
necessities, will have a wonderful revelation to make,
both of the variety and ductility of material, and of
the thousand chemical and mechanical processes which
take place in and through it, without the heat of furnace or sound of wheel.  Here is an opportunity in
form for " the felicitous fulfilment of living function,"
-for a thought of love most skilfully executed,- for
beauty.   Form- pliant, flexible, full of office - becomes more and more the seat of thought, more and
more able to mark the progress of the Creator's work.
As form is condensed and intensified in expression,as every line and curve become significant, till within
the breadth of the human face the character of all generations is written,- it will be observed that variety,
though not less, is less bold, is held within narrower
limits.  If the machine combines but a few wheels, the
position of any one may be readily changed; if many,
i
I
I
I
ii 
VARIETY LESS BOLD IN HIGII PRODUCTS.
this is done with more difficulty, for a system of complex interdependence is thereby broken. Plants of the
same species differ widely from each other in the number, arrangement, and outline of their members. As
the plan is not yet full or complex, it takes to itself
iiore license, the relation of parts is more readily slifted, and by this change the freshness of expression is
preserved, small differences are less obvious, and variety is secured with a bolder hand.   The changes which
make one tree to differ from another are as much greater than those between man and man as the plant is less
expressive, less complete in its form, less complex ill its
organization and relations, than the man. The very
amount and perfection of the work in the human body
straitens the variety of form which it may assume, and
yet adds to the' power of the slightest change.  While
plants differ more from each other, they are less readily
discriminated from each other than men. The human
face, whlile true to itself in all leading characteristics, is,
in the power of its variety, in the spiritual tidings which
are signalled in it, unmneasured.
Akin to this is the number of species by which the
beauty of the lower kingdoms is sustained, as against
the higher.  Contrast grasses with forest-trees; insects
with birds and mammals.  Ill preserving the balance,
quantity is made, ill part, to take the place of quality,
and in'the prodigality of workmanship, we lose the
sense of inferiority.  Man, while gathering into himself the crowning  excellences  of form,  stands  over
against and outweiglhs a physical world, striking in
every single feature, and marvellous in its range.
It has been questioned wlhetlher beauty has any real
existence aside from the percipient;  It has as perma
F
4* 
LECTURE  VI.
nent and independent an existence as that in which
it inheres.  Each advance of order upon disorder, of
creation uponl chaos, marks the presence of a formativre idea, and this, as seen ill its product, gives rise
to the impression of beauty, not by virtue of any-thing ill the percipient beyond a receptive power-b-at
through a quality which, the object unchanged, remains in it the same for all rational beings.   Beauty
does exist as a permanent attribute of the appropriate
expression.    The progress of creation develops  not
simply truth, but beauty for all intelligences. Beauty
is the form and aptness of appropriate truth.
As form, though greatly varied, though complicated
and elaborate in details as presented in nature, is yet
wholly subject to law, exists in every modification
through reason and for a reason, is ever expressive
of some new change of the living principle, some new
uses and necessities, it is evident that this most fundamenital symbol must be thoroughly studied, and only
as it is accurately presented can any work  claim to
be in sympathly with an actual creation, representative of real forces, of that ever-present, efficient, and
Divine idea which makes the world beautiful.
Ignorance may disguise discrepancies, but art must
know what forms have been wrought out by what
forces, what parts give perfect play to what powers.
Such a knowledge of form is attendant upon a knowledge of the characteristic differences  and necessities
of each kind of life.  One, through naked imitation,
may, to a limited degree, learn the lessons of form;
Ibut so perfectly is form the result of a thought workiiig in a given material toward a given end, that, sometimies at least, tlle artist may seem to seize the nature
i
iI
I
I
I
l 
COLOR.
of the principle with which hlie deals, and, working in
the very current of the stream, to shape the shores
of the living powers as they run parallel with, or give
way before, the ruling force.
The second symbol of beauty to the eye is color.
This symbol seems to have a less intimate connection
with the power  at work, and therefore to be a less
important medium of expression and of beauty than
form. To our present apprehensions, color presents
itself more as a matter of accident, more as a surface
ornament, than as an inevitable product of the idea
present,- as a part of that idea. This judgment of
color is evidently partly, and may be completely wrong.
As the mere accident which we deem it, color is still
included within, is still a constituent of the design,
for this admits of no strict, no real accidents. It has
less, perchance, but, as a thing contemplated, its own
share, of expression.  If we recollect, also, that color
is thle result of the action of surface particles on light,
it may be that the arrangement of atoms which secures
one color rather than another, stands in more intimate
connection than we  now think with the very nature
of the formative principle present.
As we have but a limited notion of the connection
of color with the forces at work, and as, therefore, its
speech - its expression- is in this direction restricted,
we must look elsewhere for much of its power.
(a.) Most important among the considerations which
indireetly impart power to color, is, that through it
alone can complex form be brought out.  Outline is
independent of color, but the  pattern of surfaces is
greatly dependent upon it. We are readily deceived
and led to ascribe to color what properly belongs to
83
I 
LECTURE VLI.
form. The veining of marble or of the petals of flowers,
the variegated  landscape, are beautiful, but largely
through the pleasing forms presented and brought to
ite eye by different colors. Let the patterns be preserved, and, though the shades are changed, we may
often find that the staple of our satisfaction remains.
Wall-paper and other prints are so varied frequently,
with onlv slight gains or losses.  Not that the color is
a matter of indifference, but that often when most
important, this importance arises from its relation to
the form, from the greater or less relief which it gives
to it.  Much, then, of the pleasure which we  carelessly
refer to color, is really to be referred to form.
(b.) The impressions on the organs of sense which
different colors make are different.
Brilliant colors attract and please the eye, partly
through  novelty,  partly through  a stronger organic
effect.  Other more  neutral colors rest the eye, and
others, through their more common, obscure, and mingled character, producing  no distinct effect upon it,
suffer neglect.   Colors,  having these  their senlsuous
impressions, wlhen employed in connection with beautiftll forms, are, according to their several natures, unpleasant, animating, or tranquil, and lend these characteristics to the object.
(c.) Colors come to the mind with various associatiols; that is, with an acquired power of expression.
Brillant colors acquire gayety, and sombre colors yet
more of sadness, from the scenes in which they figure.
Imperial purple, funereal black, priestly white, and
Quaker drab, have each their power greatly enhanced
by the service to which they hlave been set apart. The
plumage of a splendid bird or the tints of a fine flower
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INFERIORITY OF COLOR.
may increase our partiality for particular colors. Azure,
violet, and lilac, orange, olive, and rose, testify to the
sources of different shlades, and to their impression enlianced through association.
To a certain degree, inferiority is attached to color
as a symbol, by the use which is made of it in the external world. Form is much more unchanging than
color.  Indeed, when the last is not fixed through a
scientific necessity, as it were, that it may aid us in discriminating species, it seems wholly wayward. The
rose, the tulip, the verbeniia, the China aster, have no
limit to their wardrobe of shifting colors. A more significant fact, however, is that, while form becomes more
complex and perfect from lowest to highest, no such
gradation is found in color.  The inorganic world presents some of our most brilliant displays in this respect;
witiness the gems and the clouds.  The lower organic
creations are, as a class, more showy than the higher;
witness sea-mosses, shells, and insects.  In man, color
almost wholly drops away, or, if present, is so to limit,
rather than to enlarge, expression.   Solomon  in all
his glory was not arrayed like the lily.  The distinction
lay in color, not in form.  Both the word arrayed and
the fact are derogatory to color.   Brilliant lines are
added to the inferior by way of compensation;  the
superior is lifted above ornament, above array. The
Caucasian blush, which is certainly the most significant
use of color in man, derives its power not half so much
from its character as color, as from the intimate and
mnort unusual connection it is seen to have with the
forces of life beneath. Thie power of the blush, beyond
the pigment, beyond mere paint, is that it is seen to
come and go. By virtue of this, it stands in the same
85 
LECTURE VI.
intimate connection with the vital power as form. If
all color were seen to be the suffusion of a vigorous or
a virtuous life, it would instantly gain over us an entirely new power.
In this connection, it is worthy of remark, that while
hair seems to man primarily anl ornament, its chosen
colors are shades of black, passing with age into white,
- the only two negatives, - and that all brilliant color
is alike uncommon and ungrateful.
The use of the terms gaudy and modest has also
somethilg of this disparagement of color.  The  perpetual variety which fashion feels called on to furnish
is equally al abuse of form and color, and shows her
action a fantastic pursuit of novelty, with but slight
reference to taste.
While form is the basis and framework of beauty in
the world, the most sensible and immediate part of
the effect is often due to color. Much is appreciated
through it which would otherwise remain unfelt. It
lays hold more strongly of the senses, and, arresting
us, leads us to a more intimate knowledge of form, and
the more intellectual lessons there taugh-lt.  The brilliancy, vivacity, and cheerfulness of the world are due
to color; its depth of emotional power to form.
As there is a broad, careful, powerful, determinate,
and appreciative use of color in the world, it, as a symbol of expression, claims most accurate study.
A third of those symbols which address themselves to
the eye, is light and shade, - chiaro-oscuro.
This is certainly not less important than color.  The
one arises from light as a compound, the other from it
as a simple.  Color results from the decomposition of
light on the surfaces of bodies; light and shade. trom
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LIGHT AND SHADEIR
the interception and reflection of light by bodies. The
one has reference to those modifications of light which
affect its kind, as in the painting; the other, to those
which affect its degree, as in the engraving.
Shade stands ill more intimnate relation with form
than does color. As shadow, it is the repetition of outline under those regular but multifold changes which
the relation of the body to the light occasions; as varyiIg in intensity, it owes its variety to the form of surfaces.
Light and shade demand most careful study and
treatment, both for the beauty of their effects and the
number of truths which are committed to thlem.
The heavy shadows which lie along the valleys and
choke the ravines at early day, as if the now broken
forces of night were skulking in moiutain retreats, and
eluding the shafts of light behind every barrier, - the
thronging shadows of evening which, aware of their
hour, rally from their defeat, and come creeping forthl
from all their hiding-places, till they have again locked
arms in solid phalanx,- the spectral shadows of a, summer's night, dark as the angles of a city whose mystery
and concealment take refuge even from the mild moon,
-the rippling lake, flashing like a shivered mirror, or
hiding another world beneath its surface;   all testify
to the fascinating power of light and shade, and the
large share of expression which has been committed to
them. But this is not all,- a large allotment of truth
has fallen to their share.
(a.) Time is given us by light and shade. Each
hour of the day has its own character;  evening, its
leepeninig, lengtl-eniiig shadows to mark the walning
movements; bold inoon, its soft. diminished, penetrable
87 
LECTURE VI.
shades; and morninig, its deep, strong outline, exultant
light playing about the unwarmed and uilpenetrated
recesses.
To the question, When? within the circuit of the
day, light and shade make answer.
(b.) Position and distance are ill part committed
to these.  Strength of light indicates the near, dimness
of light the more remote objects, while shadows, like
a system of parallel lines crossing the landscape, help
to mark the position of every object.   Allied to this in
its effect, is the color of the atmosphere.  The deeper
blue of the distant mountain  and the lighter shade
of the intervenling vales, not only give a new variety to
the scene, but define its relations. The heavens are
not azure for beauty alone.
(c.) Our  knowledge of form is largely dependent
onil cllanges effected  by it onil liglt.  The shadow  as
much explains the building or the character of any
solid to the eye, as the solid determines the shadow.
So much are shadows and thingis the counterparts and
chlarts of each other in every changing phase of light,
that we hardly know for what share of our inlformation
we are indebted to the one, and for what to the other.
Certain it is, that the eye arrives at form mainly through
li,lght and shade.  Through this medium alone do plane
surfaces represent to us every variety of solids.  Tlhis
is accomplished through different intensities of liglt,
equally when color is present as without it. Every sur facj, of whatever color, is affected by the power of tlhe
lighlt resting upon it, and the principles of light and
shade have, in kind, the same application in a paintiig,
as in an engraving.   Not an inch of canvas can be
treated without reference to the effect oi unequal light.
88 
SU3CEPTIBILITY OF LIGHT.
The inexhaustible variety of colors in the sky is due
to the effect of light onil the same material at different
distances and angles. Whatever we paint, the conlvolu tions of a cloud or of a garment, the relation of parts
is found and told in the shifting shades. So susceptible
is this subtile material, light, that each circumstance
traces itself in  a change of effect, and every effect,
! therefore, reveals a circumstance. So accustomed is
the mind to this instant information which light gives
tllrough its own modifications, that it utterly fails to
distinguish between that which is seen and that which
is inferred, and is surprised to finld the larger share
of its visual knowledge of the latter kind. Change ableness, a susceptibility of endless degrees, is a prime
quality of light as a revealing power.
(d.) Aniiotlier class of implicated truths dependent on
light and shiade, to which we can only make reference,
arises from reflection, tfle mingling of reflected and
transmitted light.  A  stream presents three objects or
scenes, sinking downward one below the other: the sur face of the water, the bottom on which it rests, and the
reflection of the banks.  These may sometimes all be
seen from the same position, and sometimes one to the
exclusion of the other, according to the lilght and the
poilnt of the beholder. If a strong light is reflected
from the surface, this alone of the three will remain
visible, but let the shadow of a cloud fall on the stream
and it will then yield prominently the image of the
bank if the water is deep, if shallow, thie bottom prom ineutly, and the surface and the reflection obscurely.
A ripple, by multiplying reflecting surfaces and shift ing their angles, will proportionately lengthen and dif
fuse the light, and will repeat certain obl)jects, distort
89 
LECTURE VI.
some, and omit others in the image below. To the
conditions before present in simple light and shade,
there are now added, in treating water, its depth and
color, its transmitted and reflected light, its variableness of surface and of the light falling. upon it. Upon
these will depend from what quarter each object trendered to the eye shall come, whether from the space
above, from the bisecting plane of the surface, or from
the space. beneath, and how these objects shall in transmission be modified.  Yet each result obeys its own law,
and has its own truth to tell.
The fourth visible symbol of beauty is motion.  This
is expressive ini several directions. 
(a.) The rapid motion of great bodies in straight lines
or in simple, prescribed curves, through the power implied, affects the mind with the feelings of sublimity.
Indeed this species of beauty is largely dependent on 
motion present or implied, since through this we chiefly 
receive the impression of strength.  The volume of momentum, and the amount of power therein obviously
indicated, are the essential points.   A  large mass of  i
clouds, by the ease and silence of a movement not apparently rapid, excites the mind. Momentum, which is
the product of volume and velocity, must be great to
impart sublimity.
The want of bulk may in part be compensated by
rapidity, and the want of rapidity by bulk. Yet, as
all small bodies affect feebly the mind, velocity, however great, cannot wholly atone for deficiency in mass.
The bullet and the cannon-ball are not sublime.  If
our conception could keep pace with the fact, the mnotion of the heavenly bodies is, in this direction, the
culmination of the sublime.
90 
MOIIO'\.
(b.) Motion in free, undefined curves may give the
impression of beauty.  Motion ill straight lines and
defined curves is mechanical, secured by a dead force;
motion in free and undefined curves is animate, secured
by a living force. The one - we speak not of what is
always, but of what is usually true - indicates power
received and obeyed, and becomes of interest only ill
masses; the other, power originated and self-directed,
and has an independent life and value when lodged
in the most limited compass.   There the expression
is of ease, pleasure, and grace, of the fullless of the
vital force, and of its perfect self-control. The significancy of form is interpreted tlhrough motion.  The
chief adaptations of form are to motion, and the entire necessity and compactness and symmetry of the
parts by wich it is secured are not fully apparent till
seen and explained in vigorous use. Attitude is but arrested motion, bringing out peculiar adaptations and
energies, and making them the object of more prolonged
attention.  The full force of form is only seen in motioii, and in pleasurable and powerful motion the beauty of animate objects passes to its height.
The two extremes of movement are represented by a
ball driven under impact, and by man in the variety of
motions which belong to his marvellously ductile organization. The one starts in simple force, the other ends
in all the varied applications and uses of force which
I)longI to the combined necessities of physical, intellectnal and spiritual life.  In the barren and simple
rttdiment, power, there is yet often present high sublimity.
(c.) Between these extremes there is an intermediate
ground, where motion is neither wholly mechanical,
91
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LECTURE VLI
nor wholly vital:  suchl are the waving of the forest
and, to the fancy, the running of the brook.   The elastic rebound of the one and the easy indolence of the
other chime in with moods of mind, and add distinct
and changeable elements to the scene.
The first symbol to the ear is words. These, however,
aside from rhythm,- a species of music, -are nothing
in themselves, stand only as arbitrary representatives of
other things, and are, therefore, in their subject-matter
included in the other means of expression.  The imagination works through words, the eye works without
them, but both work upon the same objects.
Sound, onil the other hand, as modified in music, becomes a distinct and most powerful symbol of expressioli, the only one given in any other sense than that
of sight.  Music, standing by itself in its own sense, is
of all the fine arts most isolated and independent, of
all the fine arts requires the most peculiar gifts and
individual training.
Poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture, and landscape gardening, given in their symbols throughl the
eye, are intimately connected, and the training of one
prepares for that of the others.  Not so with music.  It
is possible to be a musician, and to be nothing else; to
be everything else, and not to be a musician.
Music probably acts more directly on the feelings
than any other finle art. The intellectual element is
weaker, the emotional element stronger; the immediate
and powerful effect it has upon all classes indicates
this.  It is not the language of thought, but of passion;
and in swell and dirge gives direct impulse to emotion.
Music seems capable of employment, with slight modi
fications, in most angelic and devilish service, as a
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MIUSIC.
quickener of holy love and lascivious lust.   This is
explicable on the ground of its strictly emotional character.  The  person addressed furnishes the  emotion,
pure or impure; music inflames it, and wafts it on, —
the saint soars heavenward, the reveller sinks hellward.
The ordinary avenue, the well-trodden highway to
the heart, is through  the intellect.  Music seems to
have a path and gateway thither of its own. This is indicated by the facts, that no combination of intellectual
p)owers gives any promise of musical perception; that
this is all original gift which nature bestows, unquestioned, on her favorites; and  that classes and races
relatively uncultivated yet have a passionate love of
music, and high powers of execution. No power is
certainly less within the reach of mere cultivation than
music.
The fiilness and depth of this form of expression
must render him, the posterni gate of whose ear has
been locked, an acknowledged unfortunate, though
without the implication of any, the slightest, restrictioii either in the range of thought or feeling.  If the
doctrine entertained by some physiologists be true, that
the cochlea is the musical instrument of the ear, whose
special function it is to determine the gradations and
consequent harmonies of sounds, it is plain that a physical defect or derangement at this point must interfere
with perception, and of course, through this, with appreciation.
These are the symbols of a strictly intellectual quality, beauty;  and, as coming all, with one exception,
through sight, they witness to the pre-eminence of that
sense.
It may be thought that in the symbols now given,
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L,ECT URE  VI.
no adequate provision is made for moral b)eauty.  Tile
adjective beautifull should not be withheld from character, but it belongs to it rather as conceived in the
concrete, than in the abstract, rather as seen in feature
and action, than in any even balance and perfection of
qualities given in barren statement to the intellect.
Spiritual force, like every other, is revealed as b)ea,ttifil
iii and through its own product, and this is visible.
(
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LECTURE VII.
FACULTY THROUGH WHICH BEAUTY IS REACHED.-STANI)  ARD OF TASTE.- WHY DISAGREEMENTS. -TASTE, HOW
CUL'IVArED,-THROUGH KNOWLEDGE, PURITY, IMAGINA  TION, AND FANCY.
HAVING discussed beauty as a quality, that in which
it inheres, anid the signs by which it presents itself, we
reach il. order the faculty, - the mental power, which
arrives at this attribute. Here three suppositions are
open to us.  This quality is an external intuition, an
object of one or all of the selnses; or it is a deduction,
the result of reflection, and reached by reasoning;
or it is all internal intuition, -tile object of a superior
rational sense.
The first is not tenable; for, if beauty were the
direct object of any one of the senses, every one possessed of this sense would apprehend it directly and
fully. Beauty would be as open to the perception of
the brute as the mail, of the uiincultured as the cultured.
The reverse of this is true, and no acuteness of senses
is found to secure this perception.
The second is not teiable; for, as already showil,
beauty is a simple and primary quality, and no such
quality is the prodluct of reasoning or judgment. No
syntllesis can reach that which is not combined, no
ailalysis that which is not contained as a constituent
in allythillng ligllcr than itself.  These two processes of
reecction, therefore, have no power over beauty, and, 
!
LECT RE RVII.
if falsely applied to this idea, they immediately destroy
it in its owni peculiar nature, and confound it with some
of the ideas of which they call take cognizance, as utility
and fitness.
The third supposition, then, alone remains to us, that
this iotion is reached through an internal sense, an
iituitive power of the reason.  Nor is the necessity of
the supposition its only proof.  We have seen the quality, beauty, not to iiinhere directly in an external object,
as sweetness in the peach or color in its rind, but inidirectly through certain other ideas and relations there
present, as right belongs to an action which has certain
bearings on the welfare of men.
The basis of beauty, that in which it is discerned,
may be said to be intellectual, and not sensual,-  a
conception, and not an object; form, and not matter;
an idea, and not the material which  that idea orders.
While, thlen, there is an intuition, we see it cannot
be ani intuition of the senses, for these only furnish
matter in its properties, only act on the material, and
the present intuition, going beyond this, must find its
quality in a conception, ani idea, itself apprehended
and  present by means of a sensation.  The intuitive
action, therefore, which reaches beauty must be preceded by sensation, and be able to make the conception which sensation furnishes the mind its own object.
In each material thing which is the product of design,
there are present form and color, given in sensation,
and the design, the plan which these indicate, given in
the intellect. It is this intellection which becomes the
object of the intuition.
In a cognitioni of beauty, the steps are three; two
presentative and one perceptive: an object given in
f
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THE OBJECT OF INTUITIONS AN INTELLECTION.    97
senIsation; all action of the mind upon this object, by
which it is understood, by which the idea ill it is
reached; the action of the reason on the idea, as unlfolded in the intellect, and found in tihe object.  The
first and third of these steps are intuitions, the second,
reflection.  The third completes the others, and alone
renders the quality beauty. The brute eye may perform the first, a simple power of thought, the second,
and only a mind gifted with the high, intuitive organ,
reason, the third.  It is not strange that the prelimiliary steps, especially the second, should be confolunded
with the third; that the reasoning processes, by which
objects are understood in their relations, should be
thought to furnish a quality of which  they are the
necessary antecedents; that the presence of a new
power, by which we reach in the old a fresh and underived attribute, should be overlooked.
The object in other intuitions of the reason is an intellection, an d, in this respect, beauty is entirely analogou     s  to truth and right.  The proposition as presented
to the       eye is not seen to be a truth.  It is only when
the         reasonin gs which pertain to it are perfected that
the        reason,     acting on it as now preseuted, pronounces it
a          truth.  This is yet plainer in the perception of right.
The         action merely is given through the eye; niothing
is as yet declared about it. It may be the product of
intelligence, and thus right or wrong, and it may be the
result of idiocy or insanity, and thlus be destitute of the
Iighler      attribute. The fact alone is before the mind,
and n       ot its cic rcumstances, its sources, and results.  Oli
this fact, however, the mind proceeds to act, determines
the         motive, i nquires into thie immediate and ultimate
resu lts o    f     such    action, and the degree ill whl-ich its an
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LECTURE VII.
thlor understood these, or could have understood them.
The action ill all its relations being laid open, the
reason then discerns in it as so presented the quality,
right, or the disregard of that quality, wrong.
The correctness of the reference of beauty to all intuitive faculty will be more and more seen at every step.
So radical is it, that all minor truths explain it, and are
explained by it.
The inquiry now arises, whether the decisions of
taste tend to a common result-whether diversity is
accidental and agreement permanent. The answer to
this question must depend on the intuitive facutlty, on
the further question whether this admits in its action
variety or is the same for all.  The reason must be tLe
final referee inll questions of beauty, equally in nature
as in art, and if its judgmenets conform to no law, and
establish no standard, then there is no basis of agreement or of science in this department. The individual
may have his own principles; but as between individuals all is caprice. Nature and art in their variety
may be jtudg,ed, but as sustaining this or overthrowing
that judgment nothing call be said.
That the intuitions of reason agree with themselves,
and establish a standard, is sustained by arguments plain
and familiar, and requiring but a brief presentation.
It is probable that an intuitive organ, whose office it
is to impart, to perceive. would, in the same things,
perceive and impart the same qualities.
If such anl organ is a source of knowledge, renders
truth, it must yield that which is objectively present in
things, and this must be the same to every recipient.
Our physical senses, it may be said, are not accurate,
admit of considerable variety, and render a similar dis
98
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STA.XDA RPD OF TASTE.
crepancy probable at other points where it is less easily
detected. Taste affords an illustration of this disagreement. To this it may be answered, that this variety is
not such as to interfere with the office of this sense,
that the organic impression is relatively much greater
in the lower than in the higher organs of sense, that
pleasure, rather than knowledge, is there aimed at, and
that it is consistent, therefore, both with the nature and
office of the organs of taste and smell, that these should,
more than other organs, modify what  they transmit.
The eye and the ear, on the other hand, - the great
gateways of knowledge,- we have every reason to believe, if we cannot always prove it, give the same information to all.  The reason is the organ of our highest
intuitions, is utterly destitute of any organic sensation
or satisfaction, and is solely dependent for the enjoyment which it confers on the knowledge it transmits,
on the quality whose presence it affirms.  If, then, this
quality has not a substantial existence, witnessed to by
this faculty, the veracity of the faculty is impeached,
its pleasure is an hallucination, and we have in our
intellectual apparatus a power which avouches a truth
where no opportunity for such  a truth  exists,  and
leaves us, not only satisfied, but delighted with  the
falsehood.  This presents a case wholly different from
any variety in pleasurable sensations.  That an organ
whose office it is merely to receive and to testify to its
own impressions  should show some  discrepancies, is
not strange; but that an organ whose office it is to
report the most important and controlling principles
in the realmns of things, of belief, of action, which has
committed to it beauty, truth, and right, should involve
the mind in an inextricable labyrinth ~f:faolot::or,
*..:.'u-':":
99 
LECTURE VII.
rather, through the want of any standard, destroy all
idea of truth, is wholly inconceivable, utterly destructive of all faith in our faculties. A scepticism so radical destroys itself. Beauty is the most universal law
of form, the most potent guide of method found il
the external world. It includes all lower utilities and
adaptations, and adds for the reason of man  a most
maglificent utility of its own.  Beauty and utility are
not dissevered  or  conIflicting, but  concurrent ellds.
Beauty includes the perfection of uses, and only in such
manifest perfection is there beauty.  If, then, this principle, which rules the external into a noble completeiess, which is everywhere preselnt, securing perfection
and symmetry of plan, and skill of execution, is visionary, well may we afterward expect that the principle
of right, giving form to moral action and truth, shaping all belief, should, beinig witnessed only b)y the same
faculty, be also found illusory.
A second proof of the integrity of our intuitions is
the practical faith which all men repose in the decisions
of reason, and which they evince by reasoning with
their fellows.  This perpetual resort to argument implies, not only that there is common  ground, common and truthful faculties acting uponi facts, but a
reasonable expectation that, with explanation and increased insight, corresponding views and convictions
may be reached. Without a unility, a oneness of powers,
all such methods were utterly useless and absurd.
How, then, do we always deem them rational, and
often find them successful?
A third consideration is the agreement actually existing amlong men  on questions of taste.  This  may
sqj~   M} ijvpr~ion of the chief argument of our adver *.*,.:;2 *:
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AGREEMENT.
saries, -the disagreement among men concerning the
things thought beautiful.  Every belief, however, must,
in the last appeal, rest, not on argument, but on a skilful and careful interpretation of facts. We shall shortly
point out the occasion of variety in meii's intuitions,
and now note the kind of agreement in their judgments which, amid all discrepancies, indicates a radical
unity of taste.
(a.)  An  agreement  which becomes more complete
as men better understand each other and themselves,
indicates a oneness of controlling principles.  A superficial agreement is most striking at the outset, and is
rapidly lost as investigation proceeds. The reverse is
true of a deep, interior unity. In all questions of taste,
the lines of opinion, as they come up through the progressive stages of civilization, are found to converge.
(b.) Akiii to thie proof of unity, derived from the
greater agreement of the masses as they pass up in
intelligence, is the fact that iii each community, while
the violence of controversy is found with artists and
connoisseurs, here also is found the greatest number
of admitted principles. The controversy and the principles equally prove that the right, though disputed, is
felt somewhere to exist.
(c.) A concurrence in the kind, though not in the
degree, of awards which different  persons assign the
same work, evinces a unity of principles, with only a
transient variety in their application.
(d.) Disagreements which are themselves perpetually
changing, settling into no law, agreements which, once
established, are becoming  principles, more  and  more
controlling, unite to show the accidenItal character of
the former, and the iiilherenlt and radical lnature of the
lf,)l 
LECTURE VII.
latter.  As, amid all discrepancies, there is yet in the
facts these essential agreements, they obviously demand
for their explanation a likeness of powers, and an ever
increasing sameness of action.
It is not now a difficult task to assign a reason for
the transient varieties of opinion everywhere so obtrusive. We saw the second step by which anl intuition is
reached to be the transformation of a sensation into a
conception, an idea; in other words, the apprehension,
onil the part of the intellect, of the thought, the plan,
contained ill the object. Now, as the external and
internal relations of the object are often most complex,
and this thought, therefore, most deep and inclusive, it
is not strange that the mind should reach it with difficulty and imperfectly; if with difficulty, its own tasklabor and the slipping grasp of the understanding will
weaken the impression of the object, anld mar its
beauty. Indeed, what is secured with the fatigue and
delay of intellectual action is rarely regarded as beautiful; the mind demands the rapidity and ftilness of
vision.  If the thotiglit performs its work imperfectly,
each imperfection will limit and modify the reason's
estimate of what it has obtained, and anl inevitable
variety spring up ill its decisions. This very variety
marks how closely the reason clings to the truth of the
fact before it, limiiting its own judgments by the limnitatioli which the intellect has already imposed on it.  It
is plain that tie idea or conception which is furnished
to the reason, and in which alone it sees beauty, will be
as various as the powers and culture of the minds whose
product it is, and that there must therefore be kindred
discrepancies in the decisions of taste.
It is not affirmed that the reason sees the same beauty
102
I
1
1
I
i 
DISSIMILAR CONCEPITIIONS
in different conceptions, but in the same conception as
realized in an object.  But no complex object replete
with thought communicates precisely the same impressions to understandings so various in their native and
acquired powers as those of men. We find our most
apt illustrations in the kindred questions of right.
Right inheres in action, but the reason cannot safely
prononulce onl action till it sees it; that is, till it knows
it in its motive, its present relations and final consequelices. But an exhaustive inquiry of this sort is
often most laborious, and the intellect doing its work
weakly, wickedly, or indolently, the reason is left to
pronounce on a partial or perverted statelment of facts,
and hence to give a verdict, not only at war with truth,
but with other verdicts given with kindred carelessness.
Here also we see the force which belongs to argumenit. It does not persuade or warp an iiittiitionl; this,
the premises being given, is as fixed as fate. It strives
to modify the premises, to affect the intellectual colnception oil which the reason is to prolounlce.  Either for
right or for wrong, it leads the ulibribed taste and
conscience to its own position, as Balak, the incorrigible
prophet, to Zophlim, that it may have its enemies cursed
from tlhence. Not more numerous onl the retina of the
eye than on the field of thought are the possible presentations of a given landscape; the very variety, thereiore, which seemed at first to impeach the reason
acquits it.  This judge of things and actions, iiicori,ipt,ible in itself, has yet no power of investigation.
Wicked witnesses and hired advocates may so render
the facts as to make of no avail its integrity, and the
united falsehoods of the heart and the lihead find trainsielt currency under its seal.
103
, 
LECTURE VII.
The faculty, reason, is incapable of any direct  cul
ture.  Like the eye, it seeks at once, and only seeks
exercise. Taste, however, -for it is better to include
in this term the presentative as well as the perceptive
action of the mind, -  may be trained, and that chiefly
through the second of the steps by which a judgment
of the reason is reached.
Of these three, the first is intuitive, the second reflective, and the third again intuitive; the first sensatioiial,
the second intellectual, the third ratiolial; each part
of our triple nature unIitinlg ill the judgmenets of taste.
Action is the strelngtheninig agent of our intuitive facnlties; our reflective powers, onl the other hand, are, in
addition largely dependent for their preselnt efficiency
oil past work, oil facts disposed of and principles establishled.
The rapidity and correctness with which tlie mind
arrives at judgmnents onl  new  matter presented to it,
depend almost wholly oil the use which it has hitherto
made of its reflective powers, gathering up and explainilig the phenomena about it in appropriate principles.
So far as it understands the forces and laws at work
in a given depaetmelt, and has familiarized itself with
every class of facts, will it be able at olnce to refer each
new appearance to its appropriate place, and give to a
reflective process the quickness and ease of an iiituitioil.  In this directioni is it that the mind is chiefly
disciplined.  If the field is that of aesthetics, all kniowledg,e which  acquailnts the mind  with  the office and
habits of any flower, shrub, tree, illsect, bird, or beast,
will enable it the more perfectly to comprehend its form
and adaptations, and through tllese the plan which, in
its perfect execution, renders it beautifuLl.
1.04
I 
DEPENDENCE OF BEAUTY ON KNOWLEDGE.
All knowledge which acquaints the intellect with the
force of the several symbols of expression, and enables
it readily through these to reach the formative thought,
which defines the conditions under which alone the
mind receives pleasure, and makes familiar the priinciples which rule our enjoyments, will prepare the way
for speedy and just decisions of taste. He whose past
experience is classified and labelled, does not start anew
ill each juLdgmeiit, but has the labor of past years at
instant command.
Illi morals, hle who has long and cautiously applied
the laws of action to the questions of life, will be able
speedily to refer each new case to its appropriate explalatory principle, and, with anll intuitive faculty no
more just and certain in its action than that of another,
reach his conclusion with all the correctness and wisdomn which have characterized his past elementary judgmenits.  Many of the considerations which guide in quiestions of taste, and which are ever present to the wise
critic, are still to be pointed out, but enough has already
been done to show that the reflective processes, which
prepare the way for a speedy and safe inttiition, are so
iiiiimerous as to render skill the result of much trainling.
Most of the questions of life are so complex as to
require many antecedent judgmeniits for their resolution.
These each mall brings with him, and according as they
contain the complicated errors or the corrected wisdom
of a life, will be the immediate result. False figures
once introduced into the solution of a problem, are carried onl and multiplied  through  the whole process.
The chief method, then, by which we reach correct
intuiitions is a careful formation of elementary and prelimiiiary judgmeiits.
5~
105 
LECTURE VII.
A second method of culture is securing integrity and
purity in our own spirits.  Health is requisite to the
love of that which is healthy; and a lascivious, lustful
heart will seek lascivious and lustfuil art. If the wisdom and grace of the thought, as it comes out in a
noble product, are alone to elicit our admiration, there
must be an intense sympathy in the spirit with that
which is grace-giving and true, and a stern rejection of
that which is wayward and ready to slip into base debauchery.   The  great bulk  of error in morals, we
know, is traceable back of the intellect to the iincelinatiolls, whose servants the thoughts are. The mind has
inot done its work well, because it has not been left free
to take its own positions, but has been made to fortify
each outpost of vice in which  tile heart chose to tarry.
In a less degree, yet in a very sensible and unfortunate
degree, men have weakened their appreciation of true
beauty, aid especially of human beauty, through a want
of sympathy with the noble and true impulses which i:spire it.
Tlhe world is full of God's conceptions, and he who
would enjoy them must at least have sympathy with
God as a worker. If to be high and to be holy are the
same in man, or at least the completion of the same in'pulse, then iie will best understand the high who rightly
apprehends the holy.  We  here and everywhere deny
beauty to that which is seen to degrade; and it is certainly true that a spirit firm in its own integrity, aid
waiting ever for the Divine word, will only see beauty
in that in which it sees truth and worth.   Beauty,
though the weaker of the three, is never totally disjoined from truth and right, never keeps company with
entire falsehood and baseness.
106 
PURITY AND BEAUTY.
So akin, also, is reason in its several kinds of action,
so allied are the reasoning processes by which we prepare the way for its several intuitions, that all trainilg
ill the search after right will aid ill the discipline of
taste.  This coinnection is sufficiently shown by the coistant reference we have had occasion to make, for purposes of illustration, to the department of morals. Ill
both departments there are subtile laws of action, each
with its own imperative, the one weaker,  the other
stronger.  He who can neglect that which is right iii
action will readily neglect that which is beautiful, and
he who can despise that which is beautiful in action will
the more easily despise that which is right.
What has now been said of the culture of taste,
while leaving iiin their validity the decisions of reason,
yet shows the impossibility of ali absolute and perfect
standard for the present guidance of men. Indeed, no
such thing is desirable if so applied as to preclude that
progress whicl) with man is infinitely more than iimmediate possession. No decision of taste, however correct,
cai be seen to be correct save by one who has equally
thorouglhly canvassed the conditions on which it rests.
How  many  soever, therefore, there  may be  of right
judgments cn the beauties of nature and art, these
judgments do not stand forth with any peculiar lustre
as guides for men till the public taste has itself arrived
at that point in which it can appreciate and confirm
them.
No individual can much avail himself of a standard
higher than his own.  Under the training of more
powerful minds, hle bears his own standard on, and the
height of his aclievement is marked by the position at
which he at leniigth halts.  The possibility of entire and
1 O.j 
LECTURE VII.
universal correctness, and hence of uniformity in the
decisions of taste, is the possibility of entire fulness and
precision in our reflective processes, and perfect integrity in our impulses.  Such  a state is a remote ideal,
approximated by slow and laborious, yet constant progress. The ideal is ever something to be won, and not
given, to be possessed in trained and conscious power,
and not in native capabilities. It is the possible wait
img to be made real in effort, the latent to be revealed
ill action.
It remains, in connection with the faculties by which
beauty is arrived at, to point out the action of the imagination, and the distinction between this and fancy.
Imagination finds its most constanlt employment in reproducing that to the eye of the mind which has been
given in the senses. The impressions of the senses are
transient, but the mind does not lose its power over them;
when they have passed from these, its external orgalns,
it is yet able to recover them and repeat them to itself
through the faculties of memory and imagination.  Tlhe
memory guides the imagining power, and this recoiistructs on the mental field what was before contained in
the organ of sense. This takes place most distinctly inll
the matter given in vision, and it is sufficient for our
present purpose to confine our attention to this sense,
through which chiefly the symbols of beauty enter.
Not only does the imagination render to us copies
of scenes remembered, under thie guidance of description, it constructs more or less accurate representations
of things reported by others, and inll vacant hours gives
miedleys, scraps of many things before present to it.
Nor is this all; while never escaping from the form under which the senses work, it often, under the influence
108 
IMIAGINATION.
of desire, renders combinations and images which, as a
whole or in appreciable parts, may never have been
seen or described.  The air-castles of every enthusiastic dreamer are of this character.
Desire gives the law and  subject-matter of the picture, and imagination paints it. There is a perpetual
tendency to furnish out these scenes from the storehouse of memory, and yet they are often far from being
mere counterparts of remembered objects.  Thle imagination is thus a facile instrument in the hands of desire, bringing immediately before the appetite a fill
gratification, and perpetually inflaming it with its taiitalizinig proffers. All the lures of effort are lodged in
the imagination, and thus it becomes a potent means of
good or evil in the miud's government.
This same power not only works under the impulse
of passion, but under that of reason, and realizes for
the mind its intuitions of beauty.  When the mind has
mastered the symbols of expression, and has in it a
feeling to be uttered, the imagination, under the guidance of reason, unites the two, and a distinctly uttered
sentiment, a realized beauty, a creation, lies before the
mind.  The impulse, the feeling, is furnished by the
heart, the conception which beautifully utters it by the
reason, the symbols of utterance by past observation,
and the realization of these to the vision of the mind
by the imagination.
The reason acting on that given in the senses is simply intuitive and critical; acting with the imagination,
is creative and productive, and thus supplements nature
with art. The imagination then comes in to aid and
realize the highest mental efforts, and the mind, no
longer merely recipient -  cultured and watered-  l)gins to blossom and bear fruit.
109 
IE,ClRTURE   VII.
There is another action of the imagination, less high
and valuable than this, which is appropriately termed
fancy. It is a pleasing rather than expressive use of
form and color, -  that limited play which is given to
this creative faculty in schools of design.
Members pleasant in themselves are united in agreeable lines, and without compassing any thought  the
plan returns gracefully into itself. There is not disorder, nor yet is there any significant order. There is
not a completion and correspondence of members, nor
is each absolutely fragmentary and unconnected. A
half-aimless and half-idle, yet ever graceful and powerful, movement of mind is indicated, with here and there
single strokes in fine perfection. This fantastic, sportive movement of a mind too unoccupied to feel deeply,
and too full to do anything absolutely meaningless, is
fancy.
It is evident that the lower and the higher action of
imagination, art and fine art, cannot be cut asunder
by a straight and well-defined line. Genius at work
employs imagination, at sport, fancy. Each is the same
reproductive faculty, under a higher and sterner, or
lower and milder, impulse.
110 
LECTURE VIII.
PRINCIPLES WHICH CONTROL THE PRESENCE OF BEAUTY.  SUBORDINATION OF BEAUTY.- INCIDENTrAL CHARACTER.
-CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. -NUDE ART.
HAVING spoken both of beauty as a quality, and of
the faculty by which it is apprehended, we purpose now
to present some of the principles which control its manifestation.
The first may be concisely termed, the subordination
of beauty.  By this is meant its colnstaint submission,
its perpetual subservience to the end proposed, and the
material employed  in any given work.   Each  wise
uiidertaking has an o})ject fiulrnislled by the higher or
lower necessities of life, and beauty comes in, not to
control or turn aside, but to shape and perfect the
means by which this is reached.  She does not work
for hlerself, but finds her gains ill anothler's service.
The plant does not live for beauty, but in beauty. Its
leaves and petals have all primary reference to its own
necessities, and life being ultimate, the methods and
instruments of that life are made beautiful.  So it is
il architecture.  The building has an adequate object,
if not, it were folly to rear it, and beauiity is the scope
and mastery of meals.  The subordination of beauty is
the constant reference of that which is beautiful to an
ulterior end.
This principle arises from the very nature of beauty 
LECTURE  VIII.
as already presented. It inheres in an expression,
in a thought; now this expression, this thought, must
have  a reference, a significance of its own.   That
which is shaped under thought, is shaped toward an
end, and thus, that anything may be beautiful, it must
first possess a design, a completion, that which  may
make it an object of the intellect.
Wholly aside, then, from its beauty, there is in it a
law and order, and this additional, this superinduced
quality is only present through a perfect reference of
parts to a whole, and of the whole to an intelligible
end.  In order of thought, then, if not of time, a coiception containing its own end, and a realization of this
conception, are prior to beauty. It is in the adequacy,
fitness, and fulness of the means gathered up in a single purpose, that the reason perceives beauty. The
object, in the completeniiess of its relations, must be
given, before there is any opportunity for the intuitionI of beauty.
Beauty is not, therefore, itself a direct end, but springs
up perpetually in the path of benevolent thought as it
pursues other ends. It is an additional reward of welldoing,- the flower and the fragrance of the fruit-hearimg tree.  Like the satisfaction of virtue, it is not the
direct object of the act from which it springs, but its
inevitable and most pleasing reward.
The world having been made for man, no explanation
of the presence of any substance, of any plant or animal, is felt to be wholly satisfactory till its immediate
or mediate ministration to some one of the wants and
pleasures of man is pointed out.  Man is regarded as
the ulterior reference of all things, the final consumer
of all producets, — the possessor of all possessions, the
11.2 
EVERYTHING SUBSERVEiS A PURPOSE.
foolus of all use, the head and summit of all enjoyments. But the necessities of man lie in three directions; in physical use or utilities, in intellectual use or
instruction, ill spiritual use or training.  All below hi,
therefore, if explicable in connection with him, mus-;,
in existence and action, have reference at least to one
or other of these three ends.  There is probably nothing
which, if perfectly understood, would not be found to
include them all. Our knowledge of the complicated
dependences of vegetable and animal life constantly increases.  The humblest plants first creating, and tlhen
enriching, the soil on which the rankest and most immediately valuable grow, - each blade and leaf the grazing
field of its own insects, and each tribe of these fattened
for the maw of a neighbor, life balanced againiist life iii
most intricate compensations, -the greedy hunting of
one class weighed with the fecundity of another, and
the obvious concentration of lower plants and animals
in the uses of the higher, - render the assertion not
extravagant, not even improbable, that each external
object may have utility, a final reference to the physical
well-being of man.  Certain it is, that a little tlhouglt
is able to point out ends of instructioni or of training iii
every object which reaches the eye.
All that our present purpose, however, requires us to
affirm, is that there is present in each form of matter
some service to be performed, some thoughlt to be communlicated, or some impulse to be imparted, and that iii
its happy obedience to a noble use alone lies its beautty.
This secondary and contirngent existence of beauty
does not mark it as inferior, or as less a contemplated
object in the Divine  plaii.  Maii's physical nature in
many directions sets limits to his spiritual powers, and
113
n 
LECITURE  VIII.
brings forward its own wants as primary, hbuit does
not thereby prove that the intellect was lodged in the
body to be its skilful servant, its sagacious purveyor.
God makes instruction throulghout the world apparently
subordinate to utility.  Utilities are reached thlrough
wise means, and in a wise harmony of enjoyments, and
it is by an inquiry into the interior functions and uses
of things that we receive divine instruction.  Our lesson is locked up in objects which were made to minister
to our wants, and.seems no broader than their and our
necessities, -no broader than utility required it to be.
D'ivine wisdom is put to the service of making a useful
and Comfortable world. But this does not prove that
the knowledge imnparted iii such a world was less a
consideration in the Divine mind than physical gratification.  The pulp of the peach is the utility of the
peach-tree, and in securing this its beauty and wisdom
are involved.  The agility and strenLgth of the horse are
its utility, and in the means by which these are reached
lie the wisdom of its structure; but neither is wisdom
nor beauty therein shown to be a less important gift
than agreeable fruit and rapid travelling. Of the three
objects of our rational intuitions, beauty, truth, and
right, the last only is ever, b)y its own nature, an uiltimate aim of action.  We may, and should, pursue the
right for its own sake; not thus either knowledge or
beauty.  Knowledge is power, and power is an instrumnent and not an end.  Al  avarice of knowledge has in
it the same sort of fallacy as the poorer a'varice of gold.
Truths are the beacons which light up the path of suIIccess and skill, which show how and where the ends of
life may be reached, which guide the eye to the storehlouses of nature, and teach us to arm  ourselves for
,I I,,
-1 
BEAUTY INCIDENTAL.
high and bold aclhievements.  Truth, knowledge, is tfle
road to good, but not that good itself, - is potency,
and not virtue, capability, and not possession.  It may
stoop in its ministrations to a physical, or mounlt to a
spiritual good, but its own true value is not discovered
till it is harnessed to a service.  Beauty, on the othler
hand, is neither an end nor a means, but springs from
the perfection of the means which concur in and complete an end.  This intuition rewards skilful art, -all
tlhat escapes the mechanical and compulsory, and shows
itself, in the impulse which gave rise to it, spontaneous,
creative, and thougohtful.  It is the seal of perfection
which gives her work precedence.
This conception of beauty implies its subordination.
As a seal, there must be that to which it may be affixed.
As arising from excellences, yet itself no one nor evenl
the aggregate of these excellences, there must be an
object independently excellent as the source of this
quality.  According, tlen, as this independent perfection is everywhere regarded will the additional attributte be also realized.
In the thing or action which is beautifiul there may
be presenlt, as a primary object, either a material or
moral end, a utility or a good, a want met or a sentiment littered.  The first of these may seem, of the two,
inferior, and the beauty which is dependent on a phlysi cal use to be disparaged by contrast with that which
springs from a presentation purely intellectual.  Our
judgment at this point may be modified, however, if
we reflect that natural l)eaiiLty is everywhere inclLded
within material and physical ends, and comes in, like
the grace of household furniture, to give to commonest
wants a form of cheerful elegance,  When the manifest
115
,,,I, 
LECTURE VIJI.
aim of any object is a utility, the principle of subordination requires that that aim shall everywhere be prominent and  pre-eminent; that form  is to be adopted
which most obviously and perfectly subjects itself to,
and facilitates the use required of it.  Thle conditions,
the fixed points, are given by the end in view; and
freedom and ease of transition are reached with these
as a framework and basis, and cannot demand the exclusion or partial repressiol  of any one of them.  This
is the problem: Certait   ends being given, how  shall
these be most successfully reached?  What outline of
form, which is not a fleshlless skeleton, but a graceful
contour, will completely include these and no more?
The plan wlich excludes a needed member, or adds
a worthless one, in order that a notion of symmetry, of
beauty, may be met, therein shows its weakness, and
that it is destitute of that power which can stuccessfully
shape all means to its own purposes.
It would also follow from this principle that ornament is most successful when it is not solely ornament,
when it both discharges a useflil part in the plan,
and a beautiful part in the outstanding form.  An architecture in which the boldness of outline is broken by
idle members, possessed in themselves of no assignable
purpose, must be greatly inferior to one whose very
conception, in the variety of its offices and wants, has
a duty and a station for everything which it employs.
Ornament  which  lacks  use  lacks justification, and,
thiouglh agreeable in itself, can render but a stammerimg reason for its presence.  The less it is a constituent
of the plan, the more it burdens and obscures that plan,
and substitutes a medley for a method.
While no principle contains a more important truth,
116
i 
OBEDIENCE.
it cannot in art be so far pushed as to be made perfectly applicable to all the details of ornamentation.
It is sufficient if it has been strictly regarded in the
outline. As the precise pattern of the parts is in itself
of less importance, the rule somewhat relaxes its hold,
and suffers a less obvious connection to exist between
these and the end proposed. The embossing of a door
may be of one or of another design, without effecting
the object for which it is made.
This principle of subordination is akin to what Ruskin terms obedience.  "While a measure of license is
necessary to exhibit the individual energies of things,
the fairness and pleasantness and perfection of them all
consist in their restraint.  Compare a river that has
burst its banks with one that is bound by them, and the
clouds that are scattered over the face of the whole
heaven with those that are marshalled into ranks and
orders by its willds.  That restraint utter and uirelaxing can never be comely is not because it is in itself
an evil, but only because when too great it overpowers
the nature of the thing restrained, and so counteracts
the other laws of which that nature itself is composed.
And the balance wherein consists the fairness of creation is between the laws of life and being in the things
governed, and the laws of general sway to which they
are subjected; and the suspension or infringement of
either kind of law, or, literally, disorder, is equivalent
to and synonymous with disease; but the increase of
both honor and beauty is habitually on the side of restraint, or the action of superior law, rather than
of character, or the action of inferior law. Exactly
in proportion to the majesty of things in the scale of
being is the completeness of their obedience to the laws
117 
LECTURE VIII.
that are set over them. Gravitation is less quickly, less
instantly obeyed by a grain of dust, than it is by the
SUIn and moon, and thec ocean falls and flows under infiuelces which the lake and river do not recognize.
So, also, in estimating the dignity of an action or occupationi of men, there is perhaps no better test than the
question, Are its laws strict?
It is finely taught in this passage, tlhat, while even the
freedom of beauty is obedience, the highest beauty lies
in obedience to the highest law.  The ease and power
which we wish to see in ally given object are not found
in the waywardness, the obstinate rigidity, of the material, but in the mastery of a formative thought, before
which everything, while retaining the integrity of its
own qualities, is flexible, pliant, and apt.
The principle of subordinationi is not less controlling,
when the end proposed is moral, -is the expression of
sentiment. Beauty is then dependent on the character
of the sentiment, and the vigor with which it is uttered.
The problem becomes, with the symbols at the disposal
of the artist, to impart a certain moral state, to penetrate the work with given emotions. Provided these
emotions are not themselves base, the beauty of the
product will depend on the success of this undertaking,
and subordination will now be that of the means to
the governing feeling. In the individual expression of
this end, in the severity with which all that is alien is
excluded, success consists.
If no such law exists in the mind of the worker, all
is unrltled, unformed in the work.  There is no vigorous wielding of agencies, no striking concurrence of
things diverse; the best material loses its power, and
the purest emotions conceal their worth. Ornament
118 
ORNAMIENT.- CONGRUITY.
becomes ornate, fantastic  ai). extravagant.  With no
principle to control it, it knows not where to begin or
where to end, it becomes obtrusive, changeable and detached, and art passes illtO stage effect,   a fanciful
shifting of trilketries.  The decay of an art which has
arrived at any unusual excellenlce is wont to commelce
in an insubordination of orianameilt, enllding in total coilfusioln.  The naked, the bald statemellt of a thought, is
ever inlvigorating; the profuse luxury of a wanton, debilitating.
It is the subordination of beauty which constitutes
the difference between art and fashion, rendering thle
one so permanent, and the other so fickle.  There is no10
law, no obedienice ill fashion, and as it depends solely
on novelty, it must be ever on the move ill searclh of it.
It is bound to incessant change by the very lawlessness
of its changes.  Obedieice is allied to truth.  Obedient
art knows the limitations and laws of nature, unider
which it works, and obeys them.
Under  this priuciple of subordination, we can best
speak of congruity and propriety.  Congruity is the
weaker of the two terms, and implies an agreement
among things.  Propriety, onl the other hand, is more
properly employed ill connection with personls, and expresses the suitablehess of things and actions to stations
and cllaracters.  Every strolilly deflied object is by
this very fact fitted to make certain impressions, is possessed of a certain character.  From  tlle relation of
such all object to surrounding thinigs, tllere immediately
arises the impressioli of agreement or disagreement in
character, of colngruity or ilnconlgruity.
The more inldividual and decided are the qualities of
any object, the more selsible and vig,orolus is the law of
119
I
i
i 
LECTURE   VIIR.
congruity which it imposes.  One of the stronger illus trations of this principle is seen in what  are termed
styles of arclhitecture.  In the same style there is a
strong agreemenlt of members and methods,- a marked
concurrence of expression,- and this imposes oil the
architect a stern comlmaud not to depart from the style
once adopted, to work under its laws, to show the af fluence of its resources, the vigor of its devices, and
its enltire applicability to every part of the structure.
Upon this cheerful acquiiesceice iii the laws of a style
must depend the degree in which it shlall be developed,
the bold, independent, and powerful character which it
shall assume, its ultimate worth to art.
An incongruity among things nearly related, if striking, is humorous,  briuging them  into conitempt; if
slight, it simply serves to weaken the impression whlich
they would otherwise make.
Propriety, it will at once be seen, establishes a firmer
law, and one more inclutsive of details than congruity.
Ialil has more character tlhani irrational objects, his actiols and tlle things by whicll he surrounds himself
stand in  more immediate and vital coiiiection witll
him, and there is in reference to tliem, not only a suitableess, but an obligation.  A large part of the pleasure
or pauil which we receive fromn our fellow-men arises
from the proprieties or improprieties which are coilcected with them, and the law of propriety is more
immediately efficient in most communities tllan tllhe law
of morals.  The decisions of public opinlion, proilouIlcilig actions appropriate  or inappropriate, are mnore
lheeded  thani those of conscience, pronoulncing  them
riglit or wrong.
Propriety in onle sphere of its duty mnay be said to be
120 
PROPRIETY.
the police of mnorals. Public opinion, forced onward
by the advance of morality, multiplies its restrictions,
and what the individual conscience has long announced
in vain is at length sent forth as a command  by this
tardy lawgiver of the multitude. The virtue of the
few at length becomes the propriety of all. What is
conceded with a strict reference to right is virtue; what
is conceded to the opiniolns and feelings of men coiicerning the right is propriety.  The offences which this
police law deals with are more numerous, but not
always less hleiinous, than those judged by the higher
criminal law.  I, the progress of virtue, acts relating
to moral questions, which once passed without censure,
are first pronounced inappropriate, and afterward crimiiial.  When deep convictions of the wrongfulness of
any course of action belong to a few only, while on the
part of the majority there is but a lazy and partial
acquiescence, the severest censure which can be secured
is that of an impropriety, forcing it from the more publie places.  When, however, these convictions take possession of the mass of men, the act is regarded  no
longer as inappropriate merely, but criminal, and is put
under the ban of the statute.
Propriety, then, in reference to one class of questions, is a sort of half-way ground between virtue and
vice, a street decency imposed by respectable citizens,
the aduml)rationl of right.
Besides these more important questions which mark
a transitional state of virtue, and are, subject to propriety as the police of morals, there are others which
are committed to it as the police of manners.  These
are points which are deemed too trivial to involve any
moral questions, yet not so trivial as to be matters
6
121 
LECTURE VIII.
of indifference.  Methods of speech and movement, garments  and  premises,  are of this class.   These are
thought to be more particularly questions of taste, while
action in its bearings on character is reserved for
morals. A division which separates the manifestations
of character into serious and trifling, and assigns the
latter to aesthetics, is false and offensive.
All acts, the greater and the less, which reveal the
heart, are subject to the two omnipresent and vital
laws of rational life, -beauty and right.  Beauty is as
broad as is spontaneous obedience to appropriate law,
whether  this obedience, as rendered in the form of
action, be termed propriety, or, as rendered in the
inherent character of action, be termed virtue.
Thle lesser improprieties of life are objects of hlumorols or serious contempt; the greater, of scorn and disgust.   It is evident, that while mere propriety, presenlting so loose and easy a law, cannot go far to secure
beauty, its want must at once be observable and highly
disagreeable.
There is one direction in which art has indulged
itself in a most marked violation of propriety, and
tlat, too, onl the side of vice.  I refer to the frequent
nudity of its fiygures.   This is a point  upon  which
artists have been pretty unanimous, and disposed to
treat the opinions of others with hauteur and disdain,
as arising at best from a virtue more itching and sensitive than wise, from instincts more physical than
oestletical. This practice has been more abused in
painting than in sculpture, both as less needed  and
hence less justifiable, and as ever tending to become
more loose and lustful ill the double symbols of c(,lor
and form, than when confined to the pure, stern use
122 
NUDE ART. 
of he latter in stone or metal.  Despite alleged niieces  s'.e,-despite the high-toned claims and undisguised
ceni empt of artists, - our convictions are strongly against
the practice, as alike injurious to taste and morals.
Indeed, if injurious to morals, it cannot be otherwise
than ilnjurious to taste, since art has no more dangerous enemy  than a lascivious, perverted  fancy.   The
?9o ands of our opinion we shall briefly render.
(a.) This practice violates the law of propriety.  The
assertion does not beg the question, for propriety is
not established by art,- is not a law which it gives
itself, but rests on the convictions of men, and passes
ilnto a recognized and governing principle in the actions
of daily life.   Propriety is anil external law, in obedience to which beauty is realized, and not the notion
of this or that artist, or of all artists.
Propriety  comes from  life to art, there to control
its imitative forms and representative facts.   A  rule
of propriety is an  induction  of the customs  of life.
l],ought  to art as a principle  by whose acceptance
ne it can  be either pure  or true.   If propriety
we-,j arrived at by seeing what has been found in art
tse'.. it could constitute no guide to art, and the question!f the propriety or impropriety of any practice
would only be one of fact, whether it has or has not
t.~e-,p 9revalenlt. Our assertion, then, is true, that this
practi'{e is ani impropriety, a violation of the settled
'aw  of life in all intelligent and  Christian  communities.  If justified at all, it must  be justified as an
imnpropriety, as a direct violation of the most obvious
law  (f decency and morals  in social life.  Has  art
tl:en, right to establish a standard of its own, and
.c'io.ate in favor of its supposed ends any principle
123 
LECTURE VIII.
it may please of decency and morals established by
the healthy sense and virtue of meni?  Such an assertion at once  sunders art from life, and makes it
the most formidable antagonist of truth and right.
Nor is it sufficient to say that this restraint of garments is the requisition of a fastidious customn, and
indicates more of guilt than innocence.
Doubtless this is true as between a pure and chas+,e,
and a siulful and licentious race, but not as between the
different races of men.  Human virtue is a virtue of
garments and protections, and it avails not to say, that
to the pure all things are pure, while men remain impure.  As a matter of fact, - and this is a question to
be decided not by art but by the exigencies of life,all chastity has protected itself, has fortified itself with
garments, and the clothed races are the virtuous races.
Nor is the difficulty removed by the often repeated and
pretentious affirmation, that art in herself is too vestal
and ligh-souled to be affected, or suiffer her votaries to
be affected, by ordinary considerations.  We meet this
with a flat denial.  The mass of men are to gaze oi1
great art, and it is simply contrary to facts to Bifrrnd
that in them  all lower feelings are overborne Al  the
pleasure of taste.  The question is not alone cc cerlnimg the putrity of the statue, of the emotions which it
was designed to arouse, but also of the emotions which
it may arouse.  If to the pure all things are ptice, to
the impure all things are impure, and at the breach
in the law of propriety which we make in the inaie of
virtue, there will troop in the lascivious imagery of an
uneasy, omnipresent passion. It is a pretty fiction of
poetry to speak of the nudity of art as "clothed on with
chastity"; but we may well remember  that it firs'
applied this language to nude life.
124 
NUJDFE ART.
Nor is it trues that art itself is s3o pure as to have
nothing to fear.  It has more than once been the base
p)ander, the very pimp of lust.  How are we to know
that art is ptlie, unless it shows itself pure in its products?
In this world, at least, the best proof of purity is not
a prurient desire to break thlrough ordinary restraints,
and walk with uncontrolled license.  Such art may be
pure, but its purity needs to be proved, not affirmed.
(b.) The source of this practice is against it.  It is
Grecian, pagan, iii its origin.   Because  the art of
Greece has kindled our own, it does not thereby follow
that a Christian people are to adopt entire the art of an
idolatrous and licelntious people.  If Christian sentiment
and feeling can find adequate expression in old, and, in
many of the conceptions which gave rise to it, corrupt
art, such a fact is a most powerful and destructive argunlent against Christianity.  We  scorn a Christian art
which has nothing more  noble to say than a Greek
mythology, whose worship was often but a Bacclhanlaliail revel. It should also be remembered that Greciani
customs were both a reason for, and a protection against,
this practice, while ours in both respects are the reverse.
The Grecians were accustomed to the naked athlete,
and had a right, which our artists and critics have not,
to know the nude human form. Our artists reach their
knowledge  secondhand  or surreptitiously, and  then
flaunt it against decency.  Modesty urges the inquiry,
Hiow is the preliminary knowledge requisite to nude art
acquired? The Greek custom had pronounced it decent
to exhibit the naked human form, and their art at least
was consistent, and violated no propriety which  they
125 
LFECTI FRE VIIiT.
had recognized  ill their social life.  Tile forerunner
of nude art witll ius ouglht to be nude life.  Then should
we bothl know the trutli, and be armed againiist the
temptation of our art.  As things nOW are, the more
strict is our daily lablit, the more shocked and tempted
we are by the startling indecency of our paintiiigs and
statues. WVe establish in life customs which keep tus
sensitive, and tlhen iiiditlge ani  art which plays Uljoii
that sensitiveness.  We  tamper with temptation,  and
have neither the innocence of nudity, nor the guarded
virtue of garments.  We  make  our art a lure, and
spread it as a concealed net.  Such  a method  must
react to break down the law of propriety which it violates, or show itself in individual evil, in the morbid
passion which it quickens.
The Grecian induration of custom is better than a
Christian virtue which is employed  only to keep u3
alive to the temptation of its lascivious imagination.
(c.) Facts are against this practice. The nudity of
Grecian and Italian art in part sprang from, and in
part oecasioned, the licentiousness of those commuiiities.  Nude art, the world over, comes forth from a
libertine atmosphere, and has only skulked with partial
sufferance in pure communities.  Tihe whelmed cities
of Pompeii and Herculaneum bear startling evidence
of lust in art, conceived and finished. It is also true
that our own communities, in proportion to the purity
and elevation of their training, are startled by nude
work, and  gaze  upon it with  something of  shame
and silent guilt.   A  circle of ladies and gentlemen
voluble and free in such a presence betokens either
little modesty or great practice. This first jar and
wound of a sensitive nature tell the whole story of guilt
and of evil.
126 
SUBJTECTS OF NUDE ART.
(d.) Tile subjects chosen for such art condemn  it.
They::re more frequently a Veinus, an Apollo, a Greek
sla'-e, some scrap of mythology, some remote historical
or wholly ideal character.   The conception of the artist
must  Sander forthi from present Christian and historic
life to Fick up and retouchl the faded figures of a faith
most j-4sly forsaken, to waste its powers in againi real izilig ti: licentious goddess of love, or god of war, strutg gling, as the highiest office of our Christian inspiration, to
iiifise a slight flush into these tlhrice dead and corrupt
bodies, (,r to reach its own better notions in some form
whicl, after all, to cover its nudeness, it must baptize
sith a lassic or unreal name.  It cannot introduce its
nalked savage as apostle or martyr, as general, coun cill(,r, or poet, but hides it in the darkness of licentious
fiction or barbarous fact, or of ideal nothingness.
Whly will not sacred subjects, historic subjects -  the
highest themes of art - suffer this treatment?  Not
less because it is against decency, than against truth.
We  violate truth  by  rendering  Washington in  the
flowing  robes of a Grecian, but no artist has been so
bold as to render him  nude, and chiefly because of
the -mmaifest outrage of such an  act oil virtue.  We
may be thought to mnisapprelhei)d  the office of nude
art, in drawing  aii argumenlt against it from the fact,
that it cannot enter the historic field.   It may  be
insisted that there yet remains  for it a place in the
ideal woarld.  So far as ideal art works out its conception-s u'.nder a strictly human character and form,
it mlist,accept the same laws as art in its application
to liut.  Thle ideal is here but the real purified  and
.olflpleted.  Eve or a Greek slave must assuredly show
their virtue  inii meeting  the conditions  of virtue  iD
127
1- -
I I t 
LEC'rURE  VIII
human life.  When, however, as in the personification
of morning, the ideal transcends the strictly  human,
and, on angelic wil,g, is poised between the earthly
and heavenly, the law of pr6priety is of course modified, yet evidently not relaxed on the side of lust.  Our
ideal virtue should be not less virtuous than our life.
The ima,ginationii may claim liberty, not liceinse.
(e.) This practice has, we do not say, no jutstificatioii, but no apology, in the necessities of art.  Art
does not need it, lay, is injured by it. From what
has been said, we see that all its best themes will not
suffer it.  A  Madoliia, and not a Venus, a Chlrist, and
not a Hercules, the history of its country, andi not
the fables of the dead, should be its ambition,  anii
these precincts of virtue nudity dare not enter.
The face, the limbs, the frame, the attitude, are
the grand organs of expression, the only organs of
spiritual and intellectual expression.   Nor  are these
so barren, so totally exhausted, that the cnrious artist
must go elsewhere to find that which he may do,
that which he may render.
All the concealed portions of the body are strictly
physical in their adaptations and expression, andthlat
taste which disciplines itself in rendering these will
only be the more liable to lose the higher qualities
of manhood, -to destroy the balance of godlike qualities on the side of the body, -to put muscle for will,
softness for tenderness, and  a full animal lif  for a
vigorous, spiritual development.   The argum!ent from
facts, both at this point and others, might be pushed
much further, but the line of argument has becit sitfficiently marked out.  The most entire and unquestioning obedience of beauty to virtue is her onily sfety
128
I
I# 
-W 
SUBJECTS OF NUDE ART.
MIore extended observation has convinced me  of the
justness of the views above presented, especially at two
points,- the national debasement that comes with nude
art, and the injury to art itself in its highest qualities.  A
distinguished American artist who had resid(led in Roetne
for twenty-five years said to me, " The  Italians  ane
nastv, filthy, beastly, in morals, as in body." Nudle art
mnay not be the cause of this, but is certainly its concomitant. Most of the European cities have a street decency
that we should term indecent, and that is quite in keel)in(r
ithl the exposure of their art.
Christian art has manifestly suffered in its moral power
and expression fiom a desire to secure striking physical
attitudes and a fine anatomy. The Slaughter of the Innocents, the Judgment,  and many  other ever-returning
tlhemes, are often, in the handling, but little more than a
complicated coil of human bodies and limbs, presenting,
indeed, every variety of exposure and struggle, but quite
barren of moral interest. Even the events of the crucifixion are more than once made the occasion for an attitude, or a lesson in muscular development, while painfillly
deficient in the divine passion that belongs to them. The
Christian artist easily passed from a Madonna to a Venus,
and repaid himself for the restraint of the one by the
license of the other; while Susanna presented as a subject a midway ground of indulgence, of which hle constantly availed himself. We shall hardly miss in any gallery of art this lustful story of the Apocrypha.
129 
L,ECTURE IX.
ECONOMY OF BEAUTY.-REASONS FOR ECONOMY.- DIGNITY
OF BEAUTY. - CHOICE O( THEMES. - TREATMENT OF
THEMES.- SUMNIMATION.
THE second principle which we present, as controlling
the manifestations of beauty, is its economy. Beauty,
from the nature of the case, from the character of the
objects iii,;ich it exists, and the faculties on which it
operates, is sub)ject to certain limitations.  It may not be
in full variety and high degree everywhere, but is aimenable to laws of distribution and restraint, the observance
of which may be called the ecoinomy of beauty.
The first of these restraints arises from the limited
number of thoughts which can be received, of feelings
which canii be entertained, b)y the hllman mind in a given
period.  Finite faculties, as those of man, grasp at any
one instant but little, and tllis little must be retained
beyond the instant, that it may either be fully understood or felt.  The fact that each emotion distinctly
realized occupies time, and is slowly excluded by other
emotions, gives to feeling what may be termed its niatural flow, essentially the same for all, though somewhat
accelerated or retarded by the active or sluggish temperamenit of the individual.   If feelings are made  to
succoed each other more rapidly than is the habit of
the rild, the faculties may for a short time be quickened and aroused, but they soon tire of objects the
I
.0
r,  
LECTURF IX.
rapidity of whose  movement  wearies  and bewilders
them, and confusion, uneasiness, listlessness, and pain
succeed. The miand determines itself to a certain rate
of motion, and will not, for any length of time, accept
with pleasure a movement either more or less rapid
than its own. Fatigue and loss of interest are equally
referable, either to more or less than  can be readily
apprehended.   The heart is free, and can neither be
spurred or reined in its pleasures.
This principle sets limits to the variety and fulness of
parts, to the multiplicity of details in beautiful objects.
Thie unity must not only be complete, but also level to
the mind which is to enjoy it, inclutding no  more than
its faculties can group and relate with that ease which
constitutes pleasure.
The more disciplined the powers, the more fill the
variety which they will be capable of enjoying; and this
growth of capacitv is met in nature in two ways.
(a.) Detaclled portions of complex objects are in
themselves beantifttl, and may occupy the mind to the(
exclusion of remaining portions, or, as its grasp is, enlarged, it may apprehend olbjects in broader and yet
broader relations, travelling slowly uip to a universe.
(b.) Il the same object- as the humani face -variety at first includes only its leading traits, and afterward, by study and increased knowledge, multiplies and
enlarges itself on tle same ground; even as the animal
world, exhausted by the natural eye, has strata below
strata of life awaiting the microscope.  This principle
is of constant application in art, demandini: that, in
the members of a building, the portions of a g',rden,
the parts of a painting, there should not be a luxuriance so iinpruined as to overgrow and conceal the oitlines of order, - as to task the apprehension.
1 ID) 1 
BEAUTY NOT ALWAYS DESIRED.
A secoid application of this principle is to transitions.
Fcel'ngs do lnot follow each other in sharp outline, as
black and white in trim mosaic, but tardily and unconsciously, as thle blended colors which tlhe sun melts into
a cloud, or the vital force, into a tinged petal.  Akin to
this should be the steps by which the emotions glide
onw.ard.  This is well illustrated by the effect of architectture o0  gardening.  The one deals more with
straight, the otlher with curved lines; and the freedom
of tlc weaker art is somnewlhat lost as it al)proacl-es the
dwell lg, the representative of a stronger art.  Everything begins to show the neilib)orlood of a sterner
law; lthe paths become more direct, the shrubbery more
closely cut, alid an increasing utility is everywhere present.  Thle one art influences the other, and only as the
mind hy distance begins to escape the trim circumspection of trchitectutre, do tle restrictions laid upon nature
relax, and she once more shows to the full lher careless,
native ease.  Transitions occupy botlh time and space.
The mr'nd refuises to vault from feeling to feeling at the
-vill of the artist.
A see.,nd principle of economy arising from the limited capacity of the mind is, that a hi,gh degree of
beauty - indeed, any beauty - is not always desirable.
There are feelings which adequately occupy the mind
withlolt giving rise to this emotion, and feelings whichl
give rise to it in very unequal degrees, according to
hlie e-,cellency of the objects which excite them. The
,leimands of utility may be of such a nature as to render beauty unnecessary and impossible; and even from
so?a7orite a feeling the mind is willing to find rest.
MIany awkward and disagreeable alld loathsonme objects,
ir thlei;r stern, stubborn truthfulless, have mueb more
132 
LECTURE IX.
power to iierve and discipline the mind, than any mere
varnish and gloss of an affected and superficial beauty.
The heart is not to be enervated with a diet of perpetutal pleasures.
Another fact, furnishing a third principle of economrny
to art, is, that some emotions, as similar, readily coexist
and blend with each other, and that others, as dissimilar
and opposite, exclude each other.   Kindred ermotions
may  be multiplied without destroying the uriity of
effect, and the mind passes from one to anotler of
these with direct and ready transition.  On the other
hand, diverse feelings, tending mutually to weakei and
destroy each other, cainnot coexist except in skilfuil a.nd
limited contrasts, and the passage from one to another
of these  must occupy more time  and  include, more
steps.  The first give rise to comparisonl, capable of a
most broad and frequent application; the second., when
the diversity becomes  opposition, to antithesis, - of
more rare and difficult use.
A  fourth limitation to the impressions  which tile
mind, from  its very constitution, is capable of receiving, arises from  the different duration and degrees of
singleness in stronger and weaker feelings.  Thi deeper
the emotion, the less the time which it tends to octcupy,
and the more exclusive is it of all other feelings while
it remains.  The weaker the feeling, on the otllher hand,
the longer the time it may occupy, and the less exclu sive the possession which it takes of the minii   A'l
higher forms of beauty, therefore, more especially tlhose
which arj sublime, can only be of rare  occrirr-nce,
while objects of more subdued expression will }-e re peated everywhere.   The heart has, as habitual pleas ures, lie- mire moderate, and only seeks the occ.sionial
183
11 
HIGH BEAUTY RARE.
stimulus of stronger enjoyments. There are ordinary
as well as extraordinary states, and the last must always
be few as compared with the first.  The fiction which
is extraordiniiary throughout loses not less its hold on
truth than oni the more just and common sympathies of
the soul.  There is little beauty unusual and striking,
tlere is much familiar and commonplace, and that is
the lmost healthy action of the mind which delights in
ordinary objects, and finds in this homely fare adequate
nou,'islhment.
This principle also makes evident the more severe
unity of treatment which a strong passion requires, and
the greater variety which  the milder feelings court.
Quantity and quality are in inverse ratio. Fancy repeats her figures with more  or less rapid succession
throughout her patterns, and atones for their single
insignificance by their joint effect. A fine statue or
noble painting will not suffer repetition, and stands in
its collected, individual worth, more worthy than if
reviewed ill every niche, or on every wall.
For this reason, also, is it that, when a strong effect
has once been produced, all filurtllher details or ornament
must either be omitted or fall into the background, that
the obj)ect may stand unobscured inll the singleness of its
principal power; and that, on the other hand, anll object,
as a landscape or building, by nature somewhat monotonous and uniform, demands the relief of ornament, and
makes up for the paucity of original impression by an
accumulation of details.  There results from this characteristic of mind a strict economy of material.
Two strong effects cannot coexist.  The heart, being
filled with one object, rejects the second, and if it finds
it forced upon it, is pained by the ilitrusion. The mind
134 
LECTU,RE IX.
tends to temperance in its enjoyments.   One  strong
pleasure satisfies it, nor will it long indulge this, but
quickly returns to the frugality of weaker feeling.
Nor is this moderation and restraint of power, this
chastity of the soul in its indulgences, characteristic of
the weaker, but of the stronger and more self-contained
spirit. There are ever in vice and ignorance a certaiii prodigality and extravagance of enjoyment.  They
squander all that they have at every entertaiinment;
they plunge at once into the utmost expenditure, as if
this were all too little.  Their feast is a debauch; their
garments, dyed deep in most positive colors, become
fantastic finery. They engulf their daily pleasures in
the extravagance of an hour; they waste their substance in riotous living. Nor does this arise from a
quick appetite, an acute taste, a ready relish of enjoymeit, but from faculties so rude that their stupid search
of pleasure is ever breaking out into revel and riot.  Of
satisfaction, of the repose of pleasure, such persons
know little or nothing.
On the other hand, virtue and knowledge, while
affliuent in resources, are ever characterized by a certain
moderation in their use.  There is in them a restrained
power, a reserve more faitl-iful and reliable even than
the troops in the field, -a happiness which flows
quietly on with its deep waters and its shallow, its
long reaches of level and its occasional rapids.   The
divine power finds everything within its reach, yet there
is in its movements nothing eccentric, extravagant, and
startling, but all that is moderate, measured, patient,
and even commnonplace. Nor does this economy of
pleasure which belongs to virtue and knowledge spring
from -any want of acuteness in feeling, but the reverse
135 
DIGNITY OF BEAUTY.
Not only has the intelligent mind, as occupied with real
and weighty interests, the hourly satisfaction incidental
to its pursuits, but it discerns in familiar objects, which
ignorance overlooks, so much, that it takes more pleas
ure in tarrying upon them than in being hurried on in
the quest of novelty. It needs no10 stimulus, it waits for
no excitement. It is not compelled, like some poor
rogue, to do a violence, to waylay its pleasures with
sword and pistol.  It is rich, it has enjoyments onl every
hand, and so healthy and keen an appetite as to make a
little a feast. The world unseen does more for it than
for the eyes of another, and there is ever stealing in, it
knows not how, as through an open lattice-work, the
firagrance of distant flowers, the warmth and odor of
distant fields.
An economy of beauty, then, is imposed upon us by
t-le very poverty and limitation of our faculties, and is
also the cheerfully accepted law of the thoughtful and
fruitful mind.
A third not less important principle is the dignity
of beauty.   By  dignity is here meant  the intrinsic
worth and power of an object,- the kind and degree
of feeling which it is capable of expressing.  There is
no true dignity ill nature aside from  maii, for in him
alone is concentrated real worth, moral worth; yet, as
many objects reflect for him intellectual and moral
qualities, these have a worth greater or less accordiig
to the nature and fulnless of these qualities, and a dignity which is the reflection of the dignity of their Authlor.  By the dignity of beauty as a compendious principle of art, is meant the concurrence of intrinsic worth
with merit of execution, the union of beauty in form
with  beauty in fact, the  perpetual  recollection that
'136 
LECTURE IX.
this high quality has initimate connection with interior
qualities, and can only exist in a high degree as resting
on a basis of substantial merit. The dignity of beauty
is closely connected with what has already been said
of beauty in expression. We there saw that beauty
springs fiom a creative, a formative, an organic thought,
and that all retreat, decay, and disease are not beautiful.  That which has in it no advance of truth, no
intrinsic worth, not less in the spiritual than in the
physical world, ilas no dignity, and hence no basis for
beauty. To the mind that apprehends vice as the retreat of virtuous life, - the defeat of spiritual strength,
- there is in it that which puts beauty to flight, and
so far, therefore, as an object presents itself as unworthy, it loses beauty, and there is no opportunity to
liumble true beauty in the correct presentation of vice.
Indeed, few truths need so severe, or are capable of so
impressive and instructive treatment, as the action of
moral deformity on physical beauty, as the sack and
ravage of a spiritual disease uponl a goodly nature. It
is evident that just here, also, there is the possibility of
a most deep and daLnning lie, in thie telling of which
beauty shall lose all its dignity, all its worth. If vice
is suffered to disguise itself, and wear a pure and regal
beauty unstained by its own nature, the great fact of
vice working  itself out in  deformity is kept  back.
Beauty as much becomes a lusty paramour  as a pure
vestal. Wherever the desertion of right is not presenited as the desertion of beauty, art is degraded, and
disgraced by thie companionship of vice, and with the
vileness of her own ministrations reflects scorn on the
beauty which she courts.
The principle of dignity, of Worth, also comes in as
13T 
CHOICE OF SUBJECTS.
a g(ifle in the treatment of ob)jects possessed of different
degrees of intrinsic value.  It does inot suffer the artist
to bestow equal labor and affection on all kinds of
work, (,r upon all parts of the same work, but compels
him to a perfect understanding of character, tlhat just
themes may be chosen, that strong points may be made
to stand out in their relative proportions, that a right
respee,t may be rendered to intrinsic worth, and that
bcauty may receive dignity from the justness of its
awards and the merit of its favorites.  Thlis principle
governs both in the choice and treatment of themes.
Only certain objects are capable either of calling out
or of receiving the highest enthulsiasm, —the best skill.
At thic point worth is closely allied to truth.  Those
obljects which contain the most and the most important
truths, which have themselves been the largest recipients of divine thought, have for man the greatest worth,
and should have over him the greatest power. The
mere correctness of a representation is not a sufficient
guaranty of its merit.   There remains among  truths
tlhe opportunity of choice, and the general character of
its selections will decide the character of any art.
(a.) Themes are determined as higher and lower by
the purity and power of the expression which they severally contain.  Man and human history may at once
be the highest and lowest objects of art, according as developed on the side of heroic strength, or sensuous indolence, — according as rendered in the rareness of that
wl;cl. is possible, or in the deep vulgarity of that which
is too often actual. Aside from anything perverted and
false, which is now excluded, there is yet in man the
widest range of topic, corresponding to the sweep and
grasp of his nature, and, therefore, that which is both
1'8 
LECTURE IX.
more and less worthy of elaborate skill.  Wasted powe'
is here very closely allied to perverted power.
Animate nature, with a full catalogue of secondary
truths, furnishes a lower, and yet a safer, field of art.
IMuch good work, and even great work, though not the
greatest, can be done in the adequate representationi
of aiiimlal life.  The landscape and natural scenery, in
the unalloyed purity, delicacy, and power of the emotioiis to wlhich tley give rise, in the intense and broad
sympathy witlh God's work which they imply, will ever
furnish permalnent objects for the most thoughtful and
emotional  art.   Indeed,  an intense  love of  nature,
though it seems in part a desertion of the higher fo)r the
lower, of the moral for the physical, yet largely atonles
for tlhis, in the strengtlhening tone and purity of its feeling, and more often marks the growth than the decay
of taste.  Amolng various objects open to its penll, pencil,
and clisel, tlle dignity of art will shlow itself in thl6 fulness of the theme, in its refusing to tarry on that which
is lower, and measuring its strength with that which
is highest.
(b.)  Some  truths  are accidental, others general;
some  individual, others specific  and  generic; some
grotesque and odd, others strangely typical and charactelistic.  It is the second class of representative facts
which has importance, which is strictly true to nature,
markiig her laws and tendencies.   These mcy have
less of mere novelty, but they have much more of real
excellence; less of that extravaganlce which startles and
pleases for the moment, but much more of that wis dom and law wlhich mark the workings of true power.
it is these olnly whichl have the wortll, the dignity, of a
system. and a metlhod,. and which therefore deserve the
189
I 
IMETHOD OF TREATMENT
elaborate presenltation and perfect completion belonging
to that which lies ill the very liue of order, and represeits the workiigs of a livilng force, of a power perpetutally creative of kindred products.   It is inot the
accidelts, but the purposes, of nature which have inlterest.  lThlat which is perfect iii aily kind of life, though
most rare, is not therefore akin to the alomalous and
the accidental, but is rather the complete realization
of law, - the fullest utterance of that which is.
(c.) Truth attaches  ali additional value,  an  additiolial digity, to historic work,- to the presenltation
of Christian facts, I)eyond that which belongs to vague
mytlhological conceptions,-  to the portrayiiig of natioi,al hleroism, beyonld that of ideal virtue.  The differcit arts are quite distinct from each other in the length
of time required to mellow facts into appropriate themes
for their efforts. Painting may lay hold of recent events,
and still find full play for its combining and' creative
imagilLation.  It is true within fixed limits, yet these,
far from unduly colnstraining, may ofteti supply a most
wholesome and needed law to its efforts.
Poetry, on the other hand, thrown back more on the
naked narrative, the bare fact, is thougolt to be forced
of necessity into a region of fiction.  So far, undoubtedly, it loses something of value, - a loss for which it
can only fitid compensation by makiig its fiction most
thloroughlly and broadly presentative of facts.  Indeed,
the success of much modern poetry would seem to show
that this desertion of the actual is inot necessary.
The  principle of dignity has more  control in the
treatmeLt tlhan iii tlhe choice of a theme.
(a.)  All that is odd and fantastic, that is mere con
ceit, that has in it no basis of fact, is thereby excluded.
140 
141
LECTURE IX.
A most striking illustrationii of this maltreatment is
sometimes furnished in gardening. Trees and shrubs
are trained and clipped illtO mathematical figures, into
cones and pyramids, or some remote resemblance of
alimal forms.  This is one of the most foolish rebukes
man has ever given to nature, and deserves to be followed by, Get behind me, Satan. To cut and shear the
character of a plant all away from it, and to put in
place of its native, free, and varied outline, its new and
individual life, some scrap of mathematics taken from
the lower, the inorganic and mechl-anical world, shows a
mind oddly out of sorts with truth and God.  A trained
hedge is only justifiable on the ground of utility, and
in its use may be more beautiful than if left wild. An
ornamental shrub or tree, on the other hand, is planted
for its native power, and all right training will only
develop this.  To make it forget its God-ordained message, and repeat forever, as with parrot tongue, our
stupid wits, is a species of profanity. Allother example
of remote and valueless resemblance is furnished by
worsted work  and kindred products of female indolencee. These, simply because they have deserted the
province of use, do not become beautiful. Subject to
the same condemnation are the word-tricks of poetry,
by which quaint expression is made to do the work of
true feeling, by which familiar thoughts, hidden in the
folds of a new guise, elude old friends like revellers at
a masked ball.
(b.) Dignity excludes the use of unworthy material
ill the arts. The durability of oil paintings gives them
a superior dignity as compared with water-colors, and 
the difference between the statue in marble and its
model in plaster lies largely here.  This also condemns 
Rl,"ATION  OF  DIFI:I';Rl.\;T  PARTS.
wax-work, aid reduces the best-executed artificials to
t-_ivial ornaments.
(c.) Dignlity also determines what part of the work
sliall receive the highest execution.  The noblest figure
il the painting must  command  the best skill of the
artist. and the touch of the peincil must nowlhere be so
perfect as to draw away the attention. The rich folds
of the garmeit are not to stand between the spectator
uad him who wears it, unless by design we mark the
rank and station as more than the man:  the flower in
the foreground is not to be more attractive than the
main effect.  InI archlitecture, nearness in position and
proximity to leading entrances impart worth to members,
and therefore demand increased delicacy. Height and
distance, on the other hand, suaffer the workman to cut
with a more bold and careless chisel.  Allied to this
dignity of members is the nature of the purpose for
which any edifice is erected, and  which at once determiiine its character and the degree of labor and ornamenit of which it is rightly susceptible.
Oin the constancy with which every modification of
purpose results in a  corresponding modification of
structure will largely depend the variety  and worth
of a lnation's architecture, the amount of character and
feeling which it will reveal.  Any style of architecture
will show its power by its pliancy, its ability to meet the
varied, multiplied demands laid upon it.  A barn must
honestly show its purpose, and cannot receive the labor
and ornament of a dwelling without degrading them.
A dwelling, the home of a citizen, has no right to the
pretension of a palace. It is strictly private, and may
not, in arrogant assumption, tower above its neighbors.
It would thus become the expression of selfish ease, of
142 
LECTURI    IX.
ungenerous and offensive self-assertion.  Fifth Avenue
may mark as strongly the infamny of wealth as Five Points
the infamy of poverty. No architecture can be beautifutl when only showing the wide, hard, unpitying hand
wlhiclh the owner stretches abroad to gather into his own
cormorant-nest the goods and enjoymnents of the world,
the high and the sharp paling withl  which lie fences ill
his own from another's, the cold, glazed eye with which
hle looks out on the suffering and want which are exiled
from his own threshold.
The dignity of beauty restrains the individual in his
architectural not less than in his personal outlays.  The
dignity of a nation renders appropriate a massive magnificelnce, a mastery of material and time thai leave
durable and deeply wrought traits of character on all
that it does.
Tlhe subordination of beauty gives us its relation to
other things, the method of its presence, as arising fiom
the subservience of the olbject to some ulterior eld, or
from the relation of parts within tlhe object.   Econo,my
of beauty gives us the limitations to which it is subject,
-the conditions which restrict its presence.  The third
principle- the dignity of beauty - shows us where it
may be present, wllat objects may, under the form of
obedience and when not exclutded byv a just moderation,
receive it.
The three principles of subordination, economy, and
dignlity may  be said to answer tlhe three questions,
How? How much? and Where?  and tlhus together, if
adequately aniswered, to constitute a complete guide
to actioni.  There is one further question of guidance
and criticism answered in previous lectutres, and thlat
is, What ends as brought out in any object -what
143 
CONNECTION OF PRINCIPLES.
kinds of expression -are beautiftl. This point being
settled, and there beiiing present that in the creative
tlioulght, in the controlling purpose, which renders
the work capable of beauty, it remains  to examine
the product in reterence to the perfect control which
this thought has  everywhere  exerted,  the  restraint
and  moderation  everywhere  shown in its ornament,
and the fitness of the points at which the more elaborate work is displayed.   That these principles mutually sustain each other, and therefore in some degree
involve each other, will readily be seen.   Nor  does
this prevent their furnishing distinct criterions of judgme.it.   That object is the most beautiful in  whose
execution there is the sternest obedience, the most
wholesome restraint, the most accurate gradation of
worth.
144 
LECTURE X.
THINGS WHICH MISLEAD TASTE. -NOVELTY. -AN INFERIOR
QUALITY. -RESEMBLANCE.-ASSOCIATION. -HABIT.-CUS  TOM.
WE have pointed out the principles which guide taste,
and now wish to direct attention to some of the things'
which mislead it. First among these is novelty. The
mind is so constituted, that things strange  ant utinusual in form or action immediately attract its attention, and fill it with the feeling of wonder.   This
feeling is of itself pleasurable, besides the advantage
which belongs to it of being so quickly able, to the
exclusion of other emotions, to take possession of the
mind.   Novelty is often associated with  beauty,  and
we may confound the effect of one quality with that
of the other.   The  artist, too weak  to reach true
beauty, may strive to supply its place with novelty,
with that which is strange, and thus striking. Tlhis
effort, when momentarily successful, must always fail
of reaching any permanent result, -must fall greatly
short of beauty.
Tlere are certain things which mark novelty as an
inferior quality, for which no valuable quality is to
be sacrificed, -as capable only of an immediate  and
vulgar effect, and not worth the slightest sacrifice of
intrinsic merit.
(a.) The emotion to which it gives rise is neces 
.NOVELTY -  ITS INFEPIORTI'TY.
sarily transient.  Familiarity robs every object of its
iiovelty, and. if it has no better qualities, leaves it in
the long, catalogue of neglected  coIImmonplaces.   An
emotion whose very realization is its inevitable, its almost immediate destruction, shows itself possessed of
only a transiet, secondary office.
(b.) Novelty as a quality is due to our ignorance,
and not to our knowledge.  It is strictly negative.  It
looks to notlhing belonging to the object, to no intrinsic merit, but merely to our want of previous acquaintance  with it.  It is therefore rather an  acci'dental and passing relation of tlhings titan a quality.
It consists equally with the absence of merit as with
its presence, and in proportion to our ignorance will
play be given to novelty and the induced feeling of
wonder.
Springing, therefore, as it does, from so unimportant
a circimnstalce as our want of previous knowledge,
novelty indicates nothing permalnent in itself, or of
permanlenlt iJiterest.   The more tlhoughltful the mind,
the more it moderates and restrains its wonder, both
as a tacit confession of iginorance, and also of a mind
that has  not yet rightly apprehended  the universal
strangeness of things even tlhe most familiar.
(c.) Novelty possesses little value for the philosoplhical mind,  because it is not in that which is accidental, strange, or diverse that it finds its most important lessons.  It inquires rather into agreements
and resemblances, since these imark the presence of
principles, and are the pathls of law.
Discrepancies  and  disagreemenits have no especial
value except as interpreted  by agreements, and the
amild that is in search of broad trulltls and inclusive
146
7
i 
LE,CTURE   X.
statements is in search of commoniplaces rather than
nlovelties.  Thle radical hlarmonly of the one has for it
more interest than the transient variety of the other.
(d.) Novelty and thle wonder tc which it gives rise
are also disparaged by association witlh a vagrant, prying, and sometimes mischievous curiosity, which, with
greedy appetite, seeks for the news, withl 1no hleed of
the wortlhlessness of the garbage which is thrown to
it.  Anl earliest inquirer after truth, seeking what is,
and not what is new, has no sympathy or partnership
with the gossip of a niewsman, or the hleed that waits
withl ears ajar oil a novelty-vender.  Curiosity, as wakefuliiess to tlat which is unknown, indicates a mind
alive to knowledge, -as wakefiulness to that which is
new, it indicates the weariness of a heart, that, in the
dull drudgery of its insipid pleasures, has worn out,
and is worni out by, the old.
Novelty, then, is both legitimate and illegitimate,- is
present in t!he highest and weakest art. The creations
of genius are brougllt out with surprising freshness,
and yet they are but the carrying out and completion
of that which was kiown,- a magnificent application
of familiar laws,-a new development of the power
an, adaptations of method.  They are inigrafted, by the
whlole strength of their controlling principle and iniite rior life, upon the old, and, as the sap of the former
root flows lup into them, it comes within the reach of a
new vital force, which, working with fresh intensity,
brings forth a strangely superior product.
Thle novelty, on tl-he other hand, which marks a decay
of power is extravagant, taking the place of law, not
revealing it, removing the familiar, not illustrating it,
startling the mind, not instructing it.  It awakens us
147 
NOVELTY. -  FASHION.
as if to attention, and yet has nothing worth the while
to say. It exists in perpetual struggle with the indolelce, forgetfulness, and oversight of a mind which is
not moved by any permanent interest. It is all attempt
to advertise that whlich- is not worth the pains of the
purchaser.  The loinger this is done, the more odd and
the more unsuccessfll will be the devices resorted to.
Dress calls for the action of taste, but has chiefly
fallen under the dominion of fashion, with whose edicts
taste has little to do.  This has taken place under the
action of two principles, novelty and association. The
leaders in fashion seek for the distinction and attention
to which novelty gives rise: those who follow in initation find their tastes and desires at once warped and
determined by the association of ideas, by the conlection of the new fashions with those whom they regard
as the gentry, whom  they have chosen to make  their
elite.   The one party-more  independent, yet more
meanly dependent -  wiln attention by striking out from
the path in which the masses lhave begun to follow.
The other, servilely catchinig the new tastes and notions,
make haste to conform their action, and share the honors of their illustrious leaders.  Since, in the world of
fashion, the more striking the novelty, the more effective is the mnovement,  extravagalnce  succeeds extravagance, often resting its success on its very violation of
taste. Fashion may be said to be a systematized pursuit of novelty, and wherever it prevails, does so largely
at the cost of comfort and taste.
Fashion may also be said to be the impotence of taste,
substituting for the gratification of a highler intuition
the meanier pleasures of wonder and novelty.  As  a
community is capable of the better, it will desert the
148 
LECTURE X.
inferior impulse;  as its ignorance  debars it from hne
lhigher, will it fall into the lower pursuit.
The rule of fashion is not to be recognizeQ.  far as
it can be successfully resisted; but this resistaLnce cannot
proceed to all degrees. Fashion establishes a transient
usage, which, through familiarity, is made more or less
agreeable, and will certainly be unobtrusive.  The unfashionable, on the other hand, being in a measure
unusual, is somewhat obtrusive, and exposes itself to
comment.   Sheer modesty, therefore, may sometimes
drive one into the protection and obscurity of fashion,
or, at least, limit his violation of it. For this reason,
much is resigned to fashion which could otherwise be
better ordered.   While dress  and furniture are the
clhief, they are not the exclusive, field of fashion. It
has much to do with thle fine arts, -with the kind of
use to which they are for the moment put, and the iature and measure of the admiration which they temporarily receive.  As the principles of taste present in art
become stronger, proportionately authoritative, and capable of perfect guidance, so fickle and false an arbiter
should be carefully excluded.  It is fashion which now
plan,ts all evergreens, and now plucks them all up; now
fills every nlook with statuettes, and nOW neglects them.
A second consideration, which often embarrasses and
misleads the judgments of taste, is resemblance. The
mere agreement of one thing with another, perfection
of representation, is not beauty, though fitted to give
the mind pleasure.
A likeness, according to the original character of an
object, may or may not be beautiful; but if a perfect
likeness, it will still afford some satisfaction, arising from
the skill exhibited by the artist. The pleasure spring
149 
150
ing from beauty is to be careflilly distinguished from
that-which belongs to successful imnitation.  The one
depeiids~-an the intrinsic power of the object, whether
a copy from- nature or the creation of the mind; the
other has no connection with the object, pr,)vided only
it be fitted to tax the skill.  An anatomical pailnting
miay impart as much of the pleasure which arises from
resemblance as the finest portrait.  The one depends
ol the intuitive and creative power of the artist, by
which lie seizes and utters expression; the other on the
care with whicl he observes, and the skill with which
he repeats particulars.
Beauty and resemblance are not concurrent in their
aims, pleasures, or means.  The first is never, like the
second, indifferent to the object on which it employs its
art, and the object being chosen, it strives rather to repeat and renew its power than faithfully to transcribe
it.  The highest resemblance is not always  the most
complete success, even when the object represented is
beautiful.   The treatment which deceives  the  senses
does not employ precisely the same qualities and chlaracteristics as tiiat which gives the expression, and addresses the reason.  Beauty makes a study of leading
and pregnanlt truthls; resemblance, of marks and coiicidences which, though prominiient to tlhe senses, may
be intrinsically of slight value.
Maliiy of the less significant points which mark  the
man may be carefully given, and make  the portrait a
successful likeness, while the higher qualities which
reveal and transfigure the manlhood may be feebly reiindered, amd leave it an insignificant painting.
Resem)iance, at best, gives only what physically is,
aid that through its more  superficial and accidental
RESEMBLANC E. 
LEC'TURE X.
tokens.  Beauty sets the latent forces of the soul at
work, and gives the face as the subject, instrument, and
index of a spiritual life.
While art, therefore, as creative and beautiful, requires the attention to be directed to wholly other
considerations than  those  by which  a deception  is
played upon the senses, and has a distinct and much
ligi,her satisfactioni to impart than that of resemblance,
there is yet a manLual skill and a certain careful observacee of minor truths to be obtained by faithful copying.
Success demands equally two elemients,-  creative, inveitive power, and truthful, easy, and accurate represenitation, -a mastery of thoughts and of the means
of expression.  This knowledge of methlod can only be
reached by practice, and much of this practice will be
in the direction of faithful copying and representation.
The power of securing resemblance is greatly iniferior
to invention, and can never take its place.  This difference is well brought out in tlhe fact that the complete
success of the one is often, as in fresco, a deception, a
lie, and of the other a noble truth; the one misleads
and confounds the senses, the other instructs the heart.
A  third fact which, in its effect upon the  taste,
deserves attention, is the law  of mental phenomena
which we term association.  Many things are deemed
more or less beautiful, not from  anytlingl present inll
them, but from the associations by which they are connected with other tlhings in the mind judging them.
Nothing is long left wholly to its ownI intrinsic merits.
It soon  comes  to  have  an  acquired  character, derived from the circumnstances with which it has been
comnected, -a siuggestionl of  times and  places  and
purposes, -a relmiiiscence of thingis, agreeable or dis
151 
ASSOCIATION.
agreeable, which  have stood in relation to it.  This
secondary character, these derived impressions, are dif ferent for differenit individuals, and are not readily sepa rated in the minid's estimates from those qualities which
make the object the same for all.
Associations of this sort rule the judgments of many,
-we may almost say of the mass,-  and a tlliing is
deemed beautiful, not from  what they have found in
it or received from it, but from  tle position wlichi
they have seen it occupy in the world of wealth, or
of art, or of opinion.  Its merit  is to them derived
from  its associations, and  the  moment  it falls from
the favor of the high, and becomes the antique fashion
of a poor neighbor, the object of tlheir former envy is
now  tlleir laughter.   They  are alike  lheartless  and
braiinless in both feelings.
Association is the reproductive power of the mind.
It is through it tlat tl-he past is perpetually renewing
itself in the thloug,lts and imagery of the present.  As
the  servant of memory,  it restores  the information
committed to its arrangement and charge; as the servant of imagination, it brings forward tlle forms and
trtitls of past experience to be wronglcit in the  coiistituenits of a new work; obedient to desire, it recalls
former pleasires, and adds to the joys of thle object
and tlhe hour the kindred joys of other years.  As  association draws upon the past, and only revivifies tlhe
scenes which our previous  history  has giveli it, tlhe
elaracter anid worth of its restored pietlures must depend oil their original value.  VirtiUe has this additional
reward, that the presett is bound back by many cllains
of assoeiatioi  to the virtuous  and just pleasures of
tlhe past, aid that it is ever summyioniing to its society
152 
LECTURE X.
these cheerful memories. No joy walks alone. No
note of music is left to die away alone.   The pleasures of the soul gather in groups, and troop forthl in
companies, each, by the very law of its presence, at
harmony withI its fellow.
Vice has this additional condemnation, -that the
present is dogged and hliilted down by the evil companionshlip of the past, that its words have the taint,
and its su,ggestions the stain of a worn-out debauch,
that it cannot shlake itself loose from the foul memories
which hang about it, nor rebuke the mali,gnait and
snieeriiig devils now evoked even by the purest objects.
This  aggregatiiig,  accumulating power  of association, by which it intensifies every effect withl the kiiidred experiences of the soul, shows itself at once in
coinnection with beauty.   The slightest things by association are endowed with the strength of the greatest.
A flower becomes the harbinger of spring, and a single
leaf or bough, as it deepens to scarlet, the token of
autumn.   The cultivated taste each hour lengthens
its register of beauties, and each hour extends and
strengthens the network of associations by which they
are bound to each other and to a common service
of pleasutre.
In a carefully correct criticism of individual objects,
the mind needs to be guarded against the warpilng
power of previous association. This necessity may be
inferred from the fact that all beauty has been referred
to association.   It also needs in the culture of taste
to estab)lish those just associations which shall enhance
its enjoymenits without misleading its judgments.   An
educated and  virtuous taste has much  to hope and
little to fear from association, since this power only
153 
ASSOCIATION.
acts in the directioni, and quickens the effect, of our
past feelings and beliefs.
On the other hand, the associations which spring
up ill connection with a partial or lieglected trainiing
are to be carefully questioned, and  oftentimes overb)orue, by more just feelings and correct judgments.
Of this sort is the aversion with which ignorance or
prejudice  regards many  forms  of animal and even
lhuman life.  These lead to a total oversight of the
admirable adaptations  and striking beauty in them,
and often give rise to a stupid cruelty, equally disgraceful to the heart and the intellect.
The person who diligently studies the various forms
of healthy life, while confessing the relative feebleness of
expression in some, can hardly fail to acknowledge the
gracious wisdom, the beauty, appeariing in all. With
this enlarged observation of benevolence, there will
spriing up  incereasing and  more  inclusive love, and,
through an appreciation of the beauty and excellency
of the workmanshlip, the soul will be put in broader
sympathy with the universe about it.
ThIe  debasing  associations of ignorance  and  vice
which chainii down the spirit need to be broken before
it can arise and fully receive the impressions of a
world, wise, benevolent, and beautiful in all its native
forms and methods.
The effects of association are sometimes so mingled
with intrinsic qualities as not readily to be separable.
It is often remarked, that those who are known to be
good are thought to be beautiful, while an imperious
and unpleasant character gives rise to an impression of
ugliness. This is broulght out iii the proverb,'i Handsome is that handsome does."
7*
1-4 
LECTURE X.
This opinion is not wholly due to association.  Not
only may we suppose that the expression of the face
and the character of the indwelling spirit have  orIigiially some relation to each other, but the former is
placed under the immediate control of the latter, and
through the constant exercise of this influence  ultimiately assumes, in all its permanent and legible lines,
the feelings and passions of the soul.   No  face  can
long resist or conceal its daily avocations. The coiistant organ of characteristic, individual expression, it
is in repose neither silent nor untruthful.   Its mhessages, like words that live in echo, reach the soul
when the tongue is silent.  The features, fading down
into rest, do  not wholly lose the passion that last
played upon them.   In the soul's sleep there is yet
a twilight on the face that tells what the day has
been.
As  the countenance is inll perpetual subjection  to
the soul, the feeling and opinion which we gradually
attachl to a face are more than mere association.
Th)ey are interpretation, - a more correct and thorotgli apprehension of the peculiar sigls whicli an individual spirit employs. Every soul does not signal the
world in precisely the same method.   Its muscular
mechanism is not ever  equally  perfect, -its  transpareney equally pure,- its play of lip, nostril, and eye
equally expressive.  The way in which it manages its
owl instrumeneIts is in part to be learned.   And  not
till the counteliance, as subject to the various phases
of thlought, has been made familiar, can we altogether
judge its power.  This acquired, secondary character,
by which the face of a friend is to uis more than that
of a stranger, may arise as much from our increased
150,
-:.1 
IhABIT.
insight into the signs of character, from our enhanced
power of interpretation, as from affectioin.
Thlat association greatly aids in securing this result
none can doubt; and the redemptive power of virtue,
by which it conceals defects, quickens beauty, and
makes the mind partial to its instruments, marks well
its superior and pervading excellence.
The only consideration of which it remains to speak,
as misleading the mind  in its esthletical judgments,
or as liable to establish impressions adverse to good
taste, is lhabit.   This is distillet from  fashion in the
principle which gives rise to it, and in the manner of
its action. The one springs from a love of the new
and strange; the other, from a love of the old and
familiar: change is with one the necessity of its existence, and stability with the other. Fashion is the
result of the restless, iuneasy temperament of the mind,
by which it chafes with the fixed and orderly; habit,
of its tendencies to settled attachments and fixed relations, as wearying of the perpetual  ebb and  flow
of events.   Youth in its volatility is most open to
the influence of fashion; old age, averse to clhange,
is the dependant and often the slave of matured habits.
A fashion is strongest in its influence the moment
it is realized, and thence rapidly declines; a habit is
in its incipiency weak, and is from  that point slowly
but steadily confirmed  in  strength.   Fashion is the
jostle and confusion of the world, habit its retirement and tranquillity.  The one is the radicalism, and
the other the conservatism, of manners.  The second
demands more respect, and exerts a more even and
permanelnt power  than the first.   Custom, which is
the habit of a community, fortifies itself with antiquity,
156
i
I
, 1, 
LECTt'UP  X.N.
arms itself with the potent power of possession, and,
inclosed within the double associations of the past and
present, is firmly entrenched against change.
As far as art is representative it cannot be truthful
without thoroughly understanding and recognizing the
effect of habit, without adequately rendering this tendency of character to confine  and  conform itself to
settled modes of action. So far as art is presentative,
creative of that which is b)etter and more beautiful,
it has evidently occasion to test the claims of each
habit, and, if it has no adequate support, to reject it
and put over against it that which is able to justify
itself to the taste and judgment. In things relatively
indifferent, habit may furnish a convenient law; but
to allow it to overawe or put down our better coilnvictions is to give way to the chronic growl of a tootlhless conservatism, made only the more querulous by
concession.  As  an illustration of the evil influence
of custom, we may instance the stereotyped and meaningless form of much domestic architecture, the size
and arrangement of yards, and the color of dwellings.
A heavy, monotonously regular front, a small, rectangular enclosure, and glaring white, are what custom
claims, and most are contented to secure.
The difference between habit and fashion is seen in
the character of the things which they respectively most
affect. Dress is the chosen field of the one, while
buildings and the more permanent accompaniments of
life are most influenced by the other. The term habit
employed to designate one's garments, as a ridiiig-habit,
would seem to look back to a period less fickle in its
fancies than our own.
It is evident that custom cannot be so violently and
157 
'158
strecnuonsly rrsist(d in estlletics as inii morals, silice thle
o0-e is itltimately a qiestioii of pleasure, and thle other
of duty.   It may here sometimes  be better to repress a
priniciple than to provoke a prejidice, sinlce it is llot all
abstract but a pleasllrable expressioii of  trutl tllat is
aimed  at.  Custom, wheii it has establislhed a law  for
tlhe protection of decency anid morals, Call most ilnpcerativelv claim that it should be respected by art, that sloe
should iiot, witl  her supposed exi,gencies, overrule the
sterni regula,tions oI which rest the safe govertmeilt of
life.
If we distinguish custom and habit from each other,
-  as the one tlhe usage, the law which the habits of the
many have assigned the community, and the other, the
method, the ever-retiurling mode which the action of
the individual assutmes,-it is evident tlhat the first,
through  the stability, order, and protection which it
gives to society, is closely allied to civil law, and will
usually demand a muhell more cautious and circumspect
treatment than tle second.  A customn may not so readily be violated or set aside as a lhabit.  Both customl
and habit exert a subtile influence over our judgments,
concealing from  us the defects of those things which
they  have  sancetioned.   They  preoccupy  the ground
with strong feelings of their own.   Many of the preferencees to which they give rise are strictly prejudices,
prejudgments iii favor of that which familiarity lhas
rendered agreeable.
Habit weakens both pain and pleasure.   That which
is halbitual addresses the feelings less strongly than that
which is new, and our familiarity with objects, both
repulsive and pleasant, has usually the effect to weaken
the impressioln tlhey make upon the feelings, and hence
CII'S'l'()i,f. 
Tl"C'i?U E   X. X.
in part inicapacitates the mind to jtudg,e them correctly.
HIabit begets a certain dulness of the faculties, by whicl
tlhey come more readily to endure protracted evil, and
to experience less enjoyment from protracted pleasure,
thllus on either hand  equalizing feeling, and softening
down its intensities.  Though hlabit, thlrougli this form
of its action, ameliorates a condition of misery and poverty, and disappoints a spirit of selfish accumulation of'
its coveted pleasures, it is evident tliat it also weakens
the hold of tlile feelilngs and judginielt on  the real
character of tlings, and perverts our  estl-hetical and
moral perceptions.  Since hlabit, when once confirmed,
conifers 1o pleasure, but rather the reverse, it might be
thotiglht to be without adequate means of supporting its
autlhority.  Its rule is one of force, rather than of persuasion; of tyranny and the scourge, rather tlan of freedomn and reward.   Habit when violated has great power
of ilnflicting discomfort, and tlle inore unreasonable and
pernlicious the habit has been, the more severe and protracted is the penalty of pain witl wlich its violation is
usually visited. In this respect it is like the momentum
of a body, which does not much show itself till an effort
is made to check the motion; then it becomes deadly,
and  sends the ball crashing and bruising through all
obstacles.   Habit is often but the momentum of the
body, or the heart, or the mind, impelled by which it
runs along in a rut of indulgence or indolence, and
Cannot be lifted out.
Even where habit is onl the side of virtue, in the very
support whichl it ienders the right, it is liable to make
tlhe soil's action more and more mecilalnical, -to leave
it satisfied with a stolid repetition of the past, rather
tliaii to.i0,CitC it to highier realizations, to bold and deter.
m~Jied j)roirress,
1
Ili i7 
HABIT.
Hlabit, therefore, as tending to restrain the free judgments, and prejudice the tasto, to mislead and weaken
tlhe feelilngs, and commit our active powers to the blind
lead of worn-out precedents, needs to be most  assiduottsly watched over and guarded against.  lts dominion
is everywhere, and all the chronic evils of life and art
will be found sl-heltered and intrenched in habit and
custom.  Taste, like judgment, while reverelcicig and
loving the past, must sometimes forget it, that it may
nmeet with iiubiassed heart the new  conditions of the
present.  Yet habit rightly formed is the ease of confirmed virtue, the grace of good breeding, the adroitness
of disciplined  powers,  the assurance  of consolidated
streiigtlh. Most to be feared and most to be sought,the inflexible moutllhi which our life is ever cooling,
the unchangeable pattern into which it is ever setting,
-it demands momentary revision and watchfulness.
Of these misleading influences, association is, perhaps,
the most powerful.  It occasions in one a great distrust of
tlle public taste and of tlle independent cllaracter of the
mstlietical faculty to observe the fixed rounds which travellers pursue, their easy acquiescence in the stereotyped
judgments of those wllo llhave gone before them, the insensible and unsensitive way, in which they take up  tlhe
praises custom assigns th-e several products of art, and the
blilnd(l conventional form  in wlich they pass them onl to
otlhers.  We hardly kllow which distresses us most,- the
stolidlity or the enthusiasm of these hasty disciples of art.
160 
LECTURE XI.
LANDSCAPE GARDENING. -RELATION OF THE ARTS. -RIGHT
OF CRITICISM. - DIMENSIONS OF GARDEN.- OBJECT OF
GARDENING.-ITS  RESOURCES,  PLANTS,  PLANTATIONS,
NATURAL FEATURES, SURROUNDINGS,  SPACES, WALKS,
FENCES. — ARCHITECTURAL AIDS.-POWERS DISCIPLINED.
THE fine arts are six, and readily fall into three
groups,- gardening and architecture, sculpture and
painting, music and poetry. Gardening and architecture are united, not as giving play to the same powers
or exciting the same feelings, but as often the accompaniments and complements of each other;  architecture giving character to the grounds, and the grounds
acting upon the architecture, and the two uniting in
one effect.  These arts, also, are pre-eminently controlled by utility, having immediate reference to the
use and pleasure of occupants or owners
Sculpture and painting are one in their impressions,
-their relation to pleasure and gratified taste,-  in
thle powers they call forth in the artist, and in their
common elements of expression,- form  and attitude.
Music and poetry are related both in the harmoiny
of the emotions to which they give rise, and in the
mutual aid which they render each other.  Soig is the
combined power of music and poetry.   The one sutpplies clearness and precision to emotioii; the other,
power and volume; the one gives direction, and the
other impulse, to the soul. 
ORlI)l-R OF FINE ARTS.
Ill detelminiiig  tle relative rank of tllese arts, we
consider the powcers demanded and exercised by them
in the artist  the scope and variety of their means;
and the fulnless of their presentations to the mind.  So
judged, we should arrange the groups, and the arts
contained in tlhem, in the order in which they have
been already mentioned, commencinlg with  gardening,
and rising in the scale thllroughtl architecture, sculpture,
pailnting, and music, to poetry, the queen of arts.
Gardening reaches no higher tlhan the lowest kingdom of life, and is there presentative, not creative.  Its
chief influence is due to the forces of vegetable life
which work under its bidding.  Architecture, thlroughout, is creative, owes its main power, not to tlhat which
it brings forward, but to its own skilful combinations,
and inl its ornamentation draws upon all living forms.
In passilig to sculptuLre, we reach  ai  art which directly and distinctively treats the human form, and the
more  slubtile and spiritual beauty therein expressed.
There is, to be sure, not the same breadth of invention,
ttie same skill and fertility of resources, presented lhere
as in architecture, but in the great requisite of beautiful expression, deep, various, and refined feeling, the
art whiclh makes man its s.lblject llas an advantage  not
to be  compensated.  There  may  be more  reflection,
more  action of the intellect, but there is less intense
beauty, less taste, in architecture than in  sculpture.
The task of the sculptor may be less varied, and call for
less ingenuity, but it demands a inobler idea, a more
thorough perception and spiritual insighlt than that of
the archlitect.  Painitilig includes the subject of sclpture and more, and presents its oblject not only in form
and attitude, but also in shade and color.  While it
K
162
I
II 
LECTURE XI,
brings man forward as its chief theme, it has through
the whole field of natture subordinate thlemes, full and
quickening.  Its range is commensurate with the visible universe, and all that enters our spiritual temple
through its royal portal, its beautiful gate, the eye,
may be presented in painting.
In passing to our third group, the subsidiary art of
which is music, we seem, in one respect, to have fallen.
The mind is now reached through its secondary avenue,
the ear, and there is a loss - but partial, however -
of tlat varied wealth which belongs to the eye.  If
music stood alone, this objection, we think, would be
fatal to the rank here allowed it.  But as the companion and partner of poetry, it retains its position by her
side, and comes both to share and enhance her clearness
and power of expression. Taking, then, poetry as the
royal, the representative memb)er of the group, we see
its rank justified by the breadth of the field which belongs to it.  It roams wherever imagination and feeiimg roam, and within the limit of the mind's facutlties
it is without limit.  It includes in its images all that the
other arts present, and much more.  It is as reflective
of all exterior and interior phenomena as the mirror
of langitage.  Content with no single, transient image
on the shifting canvas of life, it gives the whole as
a living experience, a continuous flow of vital forces.
Not moments, not the pause of events, as to the paintilig, but periods, and the movement and lhulrry of forices,
arc intrusted to it.  The poem is a series of landscapes,
is the soul daguerrotyped in each successive hour of
its existence with the full, changing play of light upon
it, and of its impulses within it.  \Whlile the painting
renders a point il time, a cross-section of eventts, to
163 
the poem  belongs continuous time, -the birth of atiois, tlheir growthl, their epic and dramatic issue.
Nor is thlis- its fuiller mastery of time- its only
superiority; it has also a fuller mastery of space, of
those obljects at any one instant presentable in space.
Its want of accuracy and completeness in detail, the
relatively slender fuirnitture of its pictures, enable it
to move  the  more rapidly, to involve wider fields,
and fields more remote from each othler, and to multiply its scenies with a facility and  wealthll Lunattainable  elsewhere.   Tlhe  superseinsual character  of  its
images enables it to treat many themes for which the
touch of the brushl is too rotghl.  The  angelie and
divine, while yielding readily to tlhe poet, may greatly
enl)arrass or wholly elude the painter.  The very fact
that in poetry the imagination paints for the inmagina tion, with no other medium than wholly arbitrary signs,
gives a scope and boldness whichl cannot readily  be
reached in more accurate, and hence more sensuous
images.  Every man's imagination is addressed, stimu lated, and directed by tlhe poem, but not so definitely
bounnd and straitened by the words as ilot to find large
play for its own creative power.  The paintilng, within
its limits, does more for the eye, but by tlis very fact
is restricted in the limits which fall to it.  The paiint  ing has fulness, the poem scope; the one renders much,
the other suggests much.  Perusing the one, we  are
students; perusing the other, we are artists.  The color
gives a limit and a curb to imaginatiol, against which,
if not divinely rendered, it will often chlafe; the word is
a starting-point and stimulus to imaoiiiation, to which it
only returns as the key and storehouse of its treasures.
The fact, that in poetry the imagination acts directly
164
POETRY. 
LECTURE XI.
on the imagination, through signs in themselves mean ingless, - that, in its presentations of spiritual phenom ena, it can reach them, aside from their visible forms
and effects, sporting between a bold fact and an intangi ble conception, in the light and out of the light, as suits
its necessity or its pleasure, - that it completely renders
nothing, but leaves all things to be rendered by the
recipient, or ratlher, the aroused mind, gives it a scope
and power which belong to no other art. Add to this,
that in metre and music it often has the aid of a new
sense which does not elsewhere appear in the arts, and
its pre-eminence is evident.
It does not belong to our plan to treat the arts in
their rules, or even fully in the particular application
of principles which they present, but to mark the object
of each art, and the means at its disposal.   The mastery of these means is largely mechanical, and falls to
the artist alone.   Their application to the office or
object of the art when known wrust be within, and subject to, those principles of taste already laid down.
The application of these principles in individual cases is
practical criticism, -a species of skill to be acquired
by familiarity with works of art, and by their careful
and protracted study.  The application of principles
involves a trainlilng of the perceptive and judicial powers quite distinct from a mere knowledge of principles.
The meter, with all its graduations and possible uses,
may be known, but skilful maniipulation still remaiins
to be acquired, or it fails of its office.
The first group, gardening and archliitecture, is that
of utility. They indicate the skill and power, and at
the same time the pleasure, with whl)ich man reaches his
physical good. While in these arts perfectly shaping
t.
165
III ' 
CRITICISM.
the material at his disposal to a magnificent realization
of his wants, he shows leisure to utter feeling, and de  lighlt the mind with concurrent beauties.
The second group is primarily representative, and
memorative.   Sculpture and painting are reproductive
of our most noble and most stirring facts, -the reflec  tion of the fullest things in nature and man.  They
struggle to commemorate the lhigh virtue which time
has struck down, the startling beauty which the chang  ilng, elements have abolished, or the feeling which the
yet more  shifting tide  of thought hlastes to  snatch
away.
These arts are the counterparts of the real, having in
them the facts, the truths, the ideals of niature.
The third group, as opposed to the other two, is in   tellectutal, not as addressing the intellect, but as lying
solely in the intellect without  any external, material
creatio,, correspondiing to the internal impression.  In
its ilihlereiLt power, this group is stimulative and sympa   thletic, - tlle medium  thlrougli whichl we lend our im   pulses and our feelings to all.
We  shlall consider these six arts in their order, com   melicing with gardening.
In each of these, our only object will be to deter   mine the province of the art, or, more definitely, the
aims openl to it, and the mneans by which thlese are to be
reached.  A  knowledge of the manier in which these
means are to be employed does not necessarily belong
to one who merely judges the effects and results of art,
-who decides luponI the estlietical inmeit, the beauty of
a work.   There are two poinlts open for judgment iii
any work of art; -its actual power and expression; the
difficulties met and overcome  in reaching this power.
I
166 
LECTURE X[.
The first pertains to intrinsic merit or value, the seeond to the skill and ingenuity evinced.  The one is a
question of taste, which any mind of quick and cultivated perceptions may without assumption answer, the
very ilnquliry being, What is the impression which the
work is fitted to make on natures duly sensitive?  The
other is a question of art, of conltrivance and manual
skill, only to be rightly answered by those familiar with
the methods and difficulties of the work,- by artists.
The first of these points is not to be relinquished to
the amateur and artist.
We are not to be told what is beautiful, and assigned
the irksome task of admiring it.  We  are, so far as
possessed of a trained and cultivated nature, the judges
of art, and that is good art which quickens and gratifies
our feelings. He who is able to feel and admire the
works of God, a fortiori is able to appreciate and admire those of man; and this is the touchstone of these
works, -their ability to arouse interest and fill the
soul of man. In one respect the artist is even less able
to judge correctly a work of art, in its claims to beauty,
tlhani oine in other respects of equal culture. The two
considerations of merit and skill, in themselves so distinct, will inevitably be mingled in his decisions. Much
work is admired which has slight claims to intrinsic
beauty, simply becatuse the lhonest opillions and feelings of men are overborne by artistic judginents. Those
who are authorized to judge do not dare either to ask
themselves what they like, or not to seem to like what
artists have imperatively told them they must like.
Opinions, therefore, which  in their formation may
have much greater reference to ilgellity and clever
craft tlhanl to simple and powerful expression, which
167 
GARDENING.
even may have arisen from the prejudices and perversions of artists, often overrule the sentiments of
educated communities, and leave them the awkward
devotees of a costly art, from which they receive no
pleasure, and in which they find no compensation.
All that we can and shall say will have reference to
the first point, will tacitly rest upon an assertion of our
right to judge the intrinsic beauty of works of art, and,
by showing the scope and range of such works, will
strive to aid us in rendering a correct judgment.
In all instances, a knowledge of the relations and
offices of an object is requisite to judge of the felicity
of the method in which these are met.   Thlis is true
equally in nature and art.  We must possess, therefore,
the geieral principles which  circumscribe  and  guide
aly art, which  give form  and limit to its products,
before we can render a tolerably accurate judgment of
its results.
Gardening is primarily a useful art, whose aim is to
furnish tlhose vegetables and friu its which  support life
and gratify taste.  In most cases, it but slightly transcelds this, its first object; yet, in the regularity of its
forms and the accuracy of its lines, good  gardening
often betrays a secret aspiration for the beautiful.  This
ambition, however, only becomes obvious and avowed
wheii the utility aimed at is enlarged, and becomes less
direct and marketable. A park is said to be the llligs
of a city.  The garden and surrounding grounds  are
the ltligs of a family, and when men beginii to stretch
their stakes, lengthen their walks, and  expand  their
culture, that they may enclose for their OWn immediate
use more of earth and air, and give to their leisure
liours a lhealtly ventilation, and to the famiily a larger
168
r 
LEC'TURE XI.
out-door life, there will immediately arise a new and
stronger demand for beauty, and we shall have landscape gardening, a fine art.
The prime utility here is air and healtihy exercise,
to which art comes in to add the much  higher emiiotioiial and intellectual utility of beauty and truth,
locked up in living organiisms.  Physical utility, however, at the very outset, assigns a law  severe and
imperative to landscape gardening.
The enclosure of the individual for strictly personal
pleasures must have liuiits relatively narrow.  Thile first,
last, and abiding impression must not be of the greed
and egotism of the owner, as of one who would be
alone on the earth, -  who devours up, in his luxuries,
the vineyard of Naboth, the gardens of the poor,who possesses more than he can use, and aims at impressionl through magnitude, - the last resort of selfishl, vulgar wealth.   This does not, indeed, interfere
with great physical beauty in all parts of such lordly
grounds; yet this beauty is overpowered and destroyed
in its effect by being put to the wretched work of expressilng the foolish vanity or heartless pride of the
owner.  There must be a broad, just, and humane deiocracy in a maii's faith, actions, and possessions, before, in their relations to him, they can be right, they
canll be beautiful.
The garden is the family portion in God's sunlight,
air, and earth, - the breathing-place of our spiritual
nature, of gratitude and of love, and as such it should
show the affectionate hand of the owner, and be proportioned to his modest wants and rights. No usurpation
should find place here,- no second-hand pride, padded
wit!, the real aid lnmodest virtues of artists and garden
IC9 
SIZE.
ers. The seminlary and the college, the village and the
city, may have their ample grounds on Which wealth
lavishes itself, for these represent the combined wants
of many, and ofteln what the rich are willing to do for
the poor.  A  graid park in the centre of a crowded
and  gasping population is man  unitilng with God to
restore the inspired gospel of nature, of pure light and
of open  hleaveis, to those crushed and buried under
brick and mortar.
The world is not so small, however, but that each
may, with modesty, in most localities, take for himself
a very considerable portion, and a larger portion, since
it may be readily treated in reference both to agricutlture and beauty, and, while quickening the taste of its
possessor, render its full quota for the nourishment of
man.  There is in what has been said no denial of the
assertion that the intellectual and iesthetical end is intrilsically of greater value than the physical end, but
only the implied assertion that the higher end is best
reached under the limitation of the lower.
Having determined that the pleasure-garden must express modesty and moderation in its dimensions, and
be within the wants and affectionate treatment of tlhe
family, and that it nimust not be sustained as a useless
appendage of wealth, only valuable because costly, we
return to our inlquiry, What, under these conditions,
are its objects and resources?
The object of landscape gardening is the most effective presentation of natural objects, primarily those of
the vegetable kingdom, and secondarily those of the inorganic.  The material belongs to nature: cultivation,
calling forth the best powers of herb, shrub, and tree;
and arrangement, skilfully comlbiiiiiig these into the
8
170 
LECTURE XI.
most pleasing product, belong to man.   The world is
full of niatural beauty altogether aside from maiia's ac  tion upon it; indeed, this beauty more frequently suf  fers from his passions and pursuits, than is aided by his
taste. Yet it is capable of receiving such aid, and
many of the choice powers of nature are reserved to
reward the skill and affection of man.  The world in  vites the exercise of taste by the new beauties with
wlhich she crowns it.  This enhanced and condelnsed
effect is the object of landscape gardening, and thle
problem of the gardener is, How best to secure and pre  sent the natural beauties within his reach.  Art is here
in the service of nature, and hidden under her guise.
The  garden should show  us what  contrivance  and
arrangement have done, or rather have caused nature
to do, but not the conltrivance and arranlgement them  selves.  This object of gardening gives us a.t once a very
important principle, - that  all tricks, deceptions, and
palpatble conceits are to be laid aside, tlhe artist being
everywhere concealed  by the hltxuriant  and native
growth of his work.  Tlhe object is to exhibit living
beauties and natural forms, and not human contriv  auces.   This object  also will limit the  number of
architectural works and orlaments that may be em   ployed.  In; proportion as the gardeni is rich, various,
and full, these should disappear, and only as nature
relaxes and becomes more subdued and monotonous may
art bring forward her creations.  A garden is greatly
iiijiured by a self-conceit which tinkers and tutors every   tliiig, which cuts and stakes and straightens, till all
fieedom and scope are fretted away, and nature knows
iiot where to hide herself from her persecutor.  Tlhe
garden does not exhibit the man, but the maii's love of
171
' iii 
RESOURCES OF GARDENING.
lower life, his pleasurable study of one great chapter in
the Creator's work.
Hlaving this object definitely before us, - the presentation of natural beauties, - we proceed to inquire what
are the resources of the gardener.
(a.) First among these are herbs, shrubs, and trees,
treated as individual specimens.  For this purpose they
need to stand alone, that all their lines may be seen,
and to receive generous culture, that the native power
of the plant may be fuilly drawn out. Sometimes the
plant in its entire, native outline is desired, - the restful and luxuriant ideal of its species.  In this case, it
is to be sheltered from accident, and from thie most
awkward of accidents, the pruiiiiig-knife.  Sometimes
one portion of the plant is sacrificed to another, -as in
horticulture the boughs to the fruit, and il many shrubs
and vines the shoots to the flowers. It is worthy, however, of our notice, that the tree and the nobler and
statelier shrubs rely far more onl free, symmetrical, and
native forms than on flowers for their power, and hold
themselves aloof from the curbing and cropping that fall
so plentifully on minor plants. The integrity of a plant
should, as far as possible, be respected.
(b.) A second resource is herbs, shrubs, and trees,
grouped in the plot and the plantation.  Plants are
social, and when clustered mutually modify each other,
and often secure a new and striking effect.  As herbs
are primarily cultivated for the flower, of which color is
a prominent element, this as well as form becomes all
important consideration in blending them with each
other. in a glroup, resemblance rather than contrast
should be sotught, as the mind is both more instructed
and interested in observing resemblances than in noting
172
lk 
LFECTURE XI.
differences, and finds more pleasure in the harmony
than in the conflict, or even contrast, of color.
Shrubs and trees gathered into clumps lose their independent form, unite in a common life, and present a
compound outline with shifting shadows, deep recesses,
and variegated surfaces, and thus become possessed of
an associated power quite beyond that of the individ
uial.
The grouping of flowers in plots in reference to color
and characteristics, and of trees in plantations in reference to outline and power, is an elementary and most
important combination in gardening.  The ground plan
or outline of the plantation will rarely be defined or
regular, but the clump will concentrate or expand itself
according to the office it has to perform. The outline
of the flower-plot, on the other hand, must, from the
necessities of cultivation, be distinctly marked. The
most easy, and at the same time the most barren,
boundaries for these are mathematical  fitgures.  The
first action of tlhoulght always tends to throw this extreme regularity into its products; the growth of feel-,
ing soon breaks it up.   Complex  mathematical and
regular forms are less fortunate than these forms when
simple.   They are too artificial, perplex the eye, and
require too much care to maintain them.  The best outlines for the plot are secured by plain, easy, and open
curves, now unitiig in regular, now in irregular yet
definite figures, and ever seeming to give free action to
the enclosed life, by yielding an open space to its slightest pressure. Outlines of this sort are strokes of fancy
whose principal virtue is graceful curvature.
(c.) A third resource is the natural advantages
which the enclosed ground presents. These are chiefly
173 
INATURE OF T' GR)UND.
iiieqlialities and roll of siurf-ce, water, and rocks.  If
these are present in any good  degcree, they at once
give plan  and  character to the whole work.  Triley
afford  a harvest of obvious opportunities which  the
artist carefully gatllers, making each striking ol)ject a
distinct feature, and the  central subject of a disticet
treatment.   Tle bold  variety which  nature lhas so
kindly firniished hlie makes haste to present, clothing
the rugged places with their own forms of life, and
the richer intervals with the luxurious plants of affluence; suffering the dark evergreen to gather in sad
recesses, and the deciduous trees to wander out in
free spaces and open sunshine; rejoicing in the  rock
which bears a stubborn, naked front, and will not
away, and in the rivulet which is ever going, yet tarries
when the rock is worn to dust.
Among  these natural resources, none  has been  a
more general and just favorite than water, especially
when  presenting a broad surface.   Water itself is a
strangely subtile element, and, in that inner world of
shadows and reflection which such a shleet presents,
we have a strong appeal to the imagination, —a silent
and magical echo of the fitfutl world above, itself more
fitful still.  This recording consciousness of water, who
has not loved to watch?
A level field lays a, heavier duty on the artist and
justifies more of architectural embellishment.  An effort
to supply the place of natural advantages by artificial
excavations and mounds is at best but partially suiccessfitl, and only possible in connection with tlhose
large expenditures which  can only accompany public
works.  Slight imounids are for the most part worthless, arid, and insignificant imitations.  This is not true,
174 
LECTURE  XI.
il the same degree, of water-basins, as these, tlhoilgi
smiall, subserve an obvious purpose, and are not mere
faint mimicry of nature. When the ground enclosed
presents any distinctive features, the improvement and
separate treatment of these give a second principle of
combination, and the plot and the plantation are so
used as to preserve the individuality and character
of these more favored portions.
(d.) Tle fourth element subject to  the skill of
the gardener are the prospects without the enclosure.
These may be both favorable and unfavorable, and he
is then desirous to preserve entire the one, and protect himself against the otlher.   Both of these ends
are reached through the arrangement of trees and
shrubbery. Plantations shelter the eye from the offence
of surrounding  objects  and  substitute  for the outbuildings of a neighbor their own green depths and
endless diversity.  These also, opening out into shady
vistas or breaking away into free and airy spaces, leave
the eye at liberty to reach a distant beauty or sweep
in an adjoining landscape.   Surrounding objects give
a law to the plan of the garden, a second principle
of combination to the foliage. Certain things are to
he concealed, certain as carefully retained, and the
surroutndings, sifted of their deformities, are to come
in as most important adjuniicts, giving wealth and extension to the garden, and putting it in sympathy with
the broad world albout it. If views are to be retained,
they cannot be equally retained from all points. This
would demand an open field and exclude gardening.
Tlhere must, tlherefore, be favored points,-out-looks
for which these advantages are reserved.   The selectionii and manaagemenlt of these become  an early and
175 
PROSPECTS.-  SPACES.
important question. If the sutrrouindiing views are diverse,-some of cities and villages, some of forests and
mountains in silent repose,- the question arises, at what
points, and upon what conditions, shall this outside
world be admitted.   Shall the garish light of gleamingT walls and glittering spires be made  to traverse
the long vista, to leap the foliage from bough to bough,
till, filtered of the sounds and l)usy vanity of man, it
comes to the silent shrine of the spirit, the  washed
pilgrim of the distant world?   Or shall we roll back
our green curtains, and open wide our eager portals
that the world in dusty garments, with cart and carriage may drive pell-mell upon us? And that broad
sweep of hill and forest, where God works in repose,
and is busy in silence, shall we not open our hearts
full upon it, and ask it to speak to us from its thlrone
of life, - life, God-given, God-sustained, the divinest
thing of earth?
(e.) Another distinct and most important element
are intervening and open spaces, both in what they
give below and above. A taste just aroused will substitute, without compunction, flowers in continuous
beds for the smoothest  lawn, and  the richest carpet
ever woven in loom. A little later, and we break the
surface with caution and reluctance, gathering the
flowers into  detached  plots, where  they  may  overshadow  the soil, and, creeping down  to their welldefined border, become the rarer'jewels of the green
eaminel. Open spaces in clear light, and with cautious
ornament, give ftill respiration and cheerful rest to
the mind and eye.   Nor  are they less advantageous
in opening up the sky in its azure, than the earth in
its green.  These two colors, the staples of the upper
176 
LECTURE XI.
and the lower fields, have a constant, an hourly mission,
and we must J'o,;, be  deficient in these necessities of
life. Every good gDxdener will be cautious how he
shears into fragments and patch-work his simplest, and,
for that reason, his best and most reliable material.
The  lawn also furnishes, in connection with surrounding and scattered objects, an opportunity to avail
ourselves of shadows, - the cheerfuil, evaiisliIig retinue of morning,  the spectral thronging crowd  of
evening. These lovely adjuncts of the coming and departing day, dials of the passing houtr, are not to be
forgotten. To these open spaces will also belong the
encompassing glories which often attend the sunrise
and sunset. When the whole arch is a canvas, radiant with Divine workmanship, we would not be smothered in a forest, but lifted out on the naked earth,the more naked the better, for we now look heavenward.
(f.) An important resource of gardening reserved to
this point are walks and avenues,- in private grounds,
the first being more prominent; in public grounds, the
second. Walks are the skeleton of the gardeii, and
largely express, though they do not constitute, its plan.
If any of the resources already mentioied furnish distinct points, and give character to any portion of the
enclosure, this fact must first be known, and the paths
be made to recognize it and conform to it.  The land
is first to be looked over in reference to its suggestions
and possibilities within and witlhout; and these being
secured, the outline of paths which include and reach
them will begin to be seen. That is a very barren
ground in which walks of pleasant curvature and convenielnt spaces may be placed at random. While the
177 
WALKS.
character of the enclosure and the relation of objects
will do micli to determine the walks, thlere are other
points of interest in their treatment.
(a.) Tlleir centre is the dwelling, and to this is their
chief relation.  As they approach it, they become more
direct, as if seized with a definite object.
(b.) They are to be managed withl a constant recollectioil of the fact that they are paths to be walked in,
and that men love, even in rambling, to have all object,
to go somewhlere, and also, that in reaching such an
object, they do iiot unnecessarily make sharp curves,
or pursue a circuitous, wasting, zigzag path, but, unless
prevented by some obstacle, approach directly, with only
minor  fluctuations.   This  directness is not often to
lapse into a straight line, for suchl    a line is less pleasing
than a curve, reveals at the outset all the ground to be
passed over, and belongs to the tlheodolite, and not to
iature.  On the other hand, if a large circuit is obviously made, a reason must be rendered for it in the
presence of an illtervenilng obstruction.  Paths, for they
are paths of mnen, are not to wander purposeless and
wild over a field, as if they had gone mad.
(c.) Walks sliould be few.  Their gravelly surfaces
are barren to the eye, they are kept with much labor,
and are, after all, a constraint.   We feel as strangers
when everywhere told by these trim monitors to keep
off the grass. Tlhe oblject of a garden is not to walk
forever on gravel, but to get off the gravel.  Where the
travel is not so direct or constant as to destroy the sod,
let your foot fall silently on the fresh, living lap of earth,
God's gift to your sandal.
(d.) Walks are, as far as possible, to take the place
of a-venues.  In a large park accessible to maniy only in
as-                          f,.
1 -1 s 
L,ECTURE  XI.
carriages, and essentially a public place, these broad
belts of gravel, where affluence rolls leisurely along,
ostensibly to admire nature, in fact itself to be admired,
are unavoidable. But I know not why they should be
admitted further than necessity requires.  A  garden is
not to be driven through on a trot, or looked over on
horseback. It is a volume to be quietly, slowly read,
and communed  with.  He who visits his garden in a
carriage, has no garden, and cheats himself and his
friends with a fantasy.
(g.)  Last among  tlhe resources,  or  at least the
adjuncts, of gardeniing may  be  placed  the enclosing
hledges, walls, or fences, and architectural ornaments.
An enclosure is a necessity, rather than a beauty.   The
presumptioln is against a fence; it must always  show
reason for its presence.  It is rather characteristic of
American taste to delight in fences.  This may iln part
arise from the fact that it has been the first duty of the
emigrant to fence in his own from the unfenced wilderness, and that a sense of work done, of.owiershlip
secured, does not arise till a good rail zigzag, fretted
with stakes, marks his borders.  However this may be,
the farmer who  owns hundreds of acres insists upon
one, two, or three narrow enclosures about his dwelling,
and the village resident must  show  his wealth in a
costly and obtrusive fence, necessarily destitute of archlitectural value, and witlh its glare of painlt striving to
atone to the eye for the verdure which should be behind it.
Where fences must be, they should be as simple and
unobtrusive as possible, beiiig in themselves unworthy
of any great expense, and little fitted for ornament by
their rough service.  A  high, heavy fence gives  the
179 
ARCHITECTURAL AIDS.
impression, on the outside, of cool reserve, of an army
iii trenclhes, and on the inside of constraint.  It must
have its origin in necessity.  Seclusion can be reachled
through trees without tlhrusting a blank wall in the face
of the innocent traveller.  It is a sad comment on public virtite when every picket seems designed to impale
a thlief, and one looks for grim-visaged.death on a
garden fence as on castle pikes.  Nature offers us retiretment, robbed of its sour pride and saucy impudence,
iii the living hedge; yet even this will be used with
caition, if we are willing to refresh the passer-by with
what God has granted for our refreshment, if we are
willing to add tlhis, our private beauty, to the beauty
of the world.  It is also to be remembered that lie who
fences out t}e eye of a stranger, by a gracious retributionI, fences himself in, rol)s his grounds of tlat catholic
sympatlhy in which nature loves to stand with lherself.
Gardening stards in close relation to architecture,
being iustally the dependaut of the dwelling.  Architectuire, with its bridges, trellises, arbors, and coniservatories, may fitrnishl gardening fine embellishmelits; but
in proportion as thle gardeni is itself affluent, tlhese are
not required, and, if present, should be of a rural character.  Elaborate and careful architecture is better near
the dwelling anid subservient to it, than wlen striving
with natural beauties for attention.  With yet more
propriety does the dwelliiig keep at a distance all larger
sihruti)s and trees, suffering  nothing to tower just at
l!aud in contrast with it, chafing it, or concealing it.
If it has any architectural merit, thlis should meet and
satisfy the eye.  Vines, and the more dependent and
modest shrubs, seeking support and shelter, join themselves to the dwelling, while the raik, independent, and
180 
LECTURE XI.
stately growths retreat a little, as not venturing to
crowd upon  their principal.   Protection  and shelter
are indeed desirable in the vicinity of the house, but
not less are air and sunlight. This union of the residence with its surroundings; through lesser and unobtrusive plants, will best meet the conditions of use, will
preserve the integrity of architecture and gardening as
independent sources of expression, and also mark their
sympathy with each other.
In the primary end of gardening-a presentation
of natural beauties fitted to elicit and interest the feelings, - there are included many subsidiary ends. It is
sufficient to mention a few of these, -shelter and seclusion; variety, reached by a careful separation and distinction of members in the garden, not suffering the
eye to range beyond the department immediately before
it; unity, the mutual conllection of these portions, by
which each unites to complete without repeating the
other; contrast and liariimoily.
The  principal  asthetical powers called forth  and
cultivated in the artist by landscape gardening  are
(a) perception, (b) combination, (c) conlception.
Too muchl stress can hardly lbe laid upon the familiar
study of natural objects, as refiiiiilg and correcting the
taste, and enabling the student, with much knowledge
of elementary forms and with a correct standard of excellence, to pass to the other arts.  All art should be
rooted in a careful and loving estimate of the workmanship of the world.  He who has not been trained to ai
appreciative love of nature, will be a poor worker and
guide in art.
The artist is also, in a manner, creative. He uses
the material at his disposal, but he unites it into a new
181 
POWERS DISCIPLINED.
and powerfill effect. This effect is the product of his
arranging and combining power, -of his treatment,
and exhibits that use and mastery of resources which
is the only creation open to human genius.
In conceiving this effect, in reaching this predetermined result, the imagination is disciplined.   The resltlts of all act, as of planting or felling a tree, are sometimes remote, sometimes not easily corrected; and to
make each step successful.  the mind  needs to have
tlhese consequences in distinct anticipation, to see clearly
lboth the thing to be reaclhed and the steps by which it
is reached.   The  imagination, with many  and most
complex particulars, accompanies the intuitive, creative
reason, and goes before the executive hand; brings the
conception to its birth in the mind, and to its later birth
in the world of facts.
Italian gardening, chiefly prevalent on the Continent, is
mucll  more constrained and artificial than English galdening.  It is pleased with mnathematical lines, figures,
and spaces; uses the shears constantly; unites its flowers
in so complicated a plan as to require a bird's-eye view for
.its comprehension; and is excessively fond of statuary and
objects of art.  The  Englishl park or garden is much
more free and simple in its method; devotes itself to fillne
lawn, magnificent foliage, and trees of famous growth.  An
occasional avenue of old oaks or elms reaches sublimity
while the cheerfully-stunnty glades, and the open spaces
wlhich command the front of the dwelling, put upon tl,e
landscal)e a warm and bright face, a cheerful invitation to
Hcaven's gifts.
182
I 
LECTURE XII.
ARCHITECTURE.-ITS OBJECTS.-AS A FINE ART.- OFFICES.
- SKILL. - ORNAMENT.- RESOURCES OF THE ARCHITECT.  MATERIALS.-AIEMBERS: WALL, APERTURES, ROOF, PITCH,
DOME.
IN passing to architecture, we come yet more immediately under the law of utility.   Use, and more  frequently a plain, palpable, physical use, gives rise to tlhe
architectural product.  Men do not build-  do not wearily chlisel the stone, mix the mortar, and carry the hod
-  without a most distinct and recognlizable end.  They
may, indeed, strive to do their work well, to do it beaufully, but this beauty is only the manner ill which, and
not the end for which, they do it.  Beauty does not
assigni ends, but only methods and means in archlitecture. Menl do Inot say, I will build beauty, but I will
build a beautiful dwellinig, a beautiful church.   Ini the
words dwelling and clhurclh are contained the purpose
of the work, iii the adjective beautifiul the mnaiiiier of its
execution.  This purpose must furnish a direction and
end to actioii before any opportunity, any material, is
givenl in whose handling beauty may slhow her power.
The sculptor must have his design before hlie call carve;
the architect must  have his task before hle caii realize
a significant execution.
It is plain tlat mealns can never riglhtly interfere with
ends, that all suchll ilnterference betrays a want of power 
RELATION OF BFEAUTY AND UTILITY.
in thle worker, an unconqluered obstinacy and illflexibil ity in the material, bafflilng the architect.  Meals that
retard, thwart, or mnodify all end cease to be means,
and by so much cut us off from our purposes.   The
same is trtie of tlle method, the manner, ill which an
end is reached, and of the concomitants of that end.
These are each sutbsidiary to the end itself.  If we are
correct, therefore, in affirming that beauty is a method,
a maiiner, a concomitant, it tlhence follows that it does
not govern tlle end, but is itself governed by that end;
that utility in arclitecture assigns a law to beauty firom
wllih  it may not depart; and that any such departure,
any, tlhe sligbltest, conflict of ornament  withl  use de stroys beauty.  The beauty is not the utility, but the
siygnificalit, the thoughtful and emotional  mainner in
which that utility is reached.   This relation of utility
and beauty must be distinctly apprehended for the right
understanding of architecture.  We  sllall tlhen be no
loig,er misled by detached members, isolated beauties,
by portions in themselves correct, but shall judge the
whlole as a whole, in its relationi to its great purpose,
and in its relation to each of its constituents.  Iii good
arclhitecture, a single end will be seen, sending forthl its
mnandate everywhere, and everywhere securing a cheerful and perfect obedience.
Arclhitecture, as a fine art, has reference to man's
work, and is dependent for its power on the success, tlhe
excellency of that work; first, as exhibiting tlhought,
all accurate, vigorous, and grand adaptation of mieans
to all end; second, as exhibiting feeling,-  the pleasure
witli which the mind treats the forms and surfaces of its
work, striving to make tlhem expressive of its own emotions.  Architecture exilibits thle intellectual and emo
184 
LEC'I'URE XII.
tional resources of man, and this is its beauty, its object
as a fine art, and it can only exist as a fine art, as and
because it is a usefull art.   The breadth and success
of its use are the framework of its beauty. In gardening, mnan presents tile work of God, living products,
perfectly aid lighlly wrought; in architecture, he presents his own work, his power over material ill itself
now more, now less admirable. In the one case, the
object is prominent; in the other, its treatment.  In the
one product, we see how God works; ill the other, how
man works with that which God gives him. The scope of
architecture in the realm of beauty is the intellectual and
emotional power which it expresses as the work of man.
The utilities which  architecture seeks  are various,
falling with moderate accuracy into three classes.
Its earliest and most constant end is protection.
Buildinlgs for protection constitute the first and larger
class of edifices.  Unsheltered man has sought shelter;
and shelter with man includes the gratification of many
wants, the protection and nurture of a group of numerous
instincts, affections, and tastes. The dwelling is the orb
of childhood, the nest, the nursery, and school of the
human callow: it is the home of manhood, its centre
of exertion and enjoyment, its points of departure and
return: it is the repose of age; thither, weary and
spent, it turns to lay down its burden.   Such a retreat,
lasting and manifold ill its offices, will gradually build
into itself, will come slowly to contain, all fortunate conitrivances, fine adaptations, and strokes of feeling, - the
grand, the simple and the emotional conceptions of man.
As the shell of the snail and the shield of the turtle
yield to the inclutided life,- shape themselves with cuLrious skill and kind provision to all its necessities, so the
185 
SHELTER. - PASSAGE.
home of man in its forms bespeaks the wants and wisdom of its inmate, the ends and means of the human
worker, and records in bark hut or solid masonry the
growth and convolutions of rational life.
Architecture commences with the dwelling. This is
the first labor that the necessities of shelter assign to
man.  There immediately follow in the interests of commer(e other forms  of protective edifices, -the shop,
store, factory, warehouse, custom-house, bank, and exchange; in the interests of education, the school-house,
academy, seminary, college, observatory, library, public
hall; ill those of governmelnt, the prison, fort, courthouse, legislative hall; and in those of religion, the
church, cathedral, temple.  This department of protective architecture is most various and inclusive, - from
the house of the hermit, to the hall that springs its
vaulted roof above the heads of thousands; from the
thin thatch that turns the pattering rain, to the solid
stone and stern battlements that stand amid the hail of
iron; from the coy arbor flecking the sunLshine, to the
defiant liglht-house, seltinlel of the lighlt-ocean, baffling
the malignant waves with a single, persistent truth.
The second end of architecture, giving rise to another  class of structures, is transit.   To  this  class
belong bridges, aqueducts, and tunnels.   The object
here is to give passage, sometimes through, sometimes
over, an obstacle.   The direct effect of the masonry
is support,- the path lying on it or passing under
it; in  the one case, the burden being  that of the
footman, the vehicle, the transmitted water; in the
other, the incumbent earth or buildings.
A  third, a monumentai class of structures, are the
memorials of the dead and of historic evelts.  Here,
186 
LECTURE XII.
the object is an affectionate rememnbrance of kindred
and friends, or a patriotic remembrance of national
events and heroes.
In each of these classes, the character and outline
of the work are determined by its office, and precisely
as this office is complete and explicit in its demands
will it control all the details of form.   Tlhe dwelling
fulfils a most complex  end, the monument a simple
end.   The  bform of the first is therefore more  perfectly subjected to the law of use than that of the
second, and the second left more open than the first
to.the action of feeling.
Architecture becomes a fine art, addresses itself to
the tastes and feelings of men, through the thoughtfil and  emotional  manner  in which the particular
objects of protection, transit, or monition are reached.
The beauty, tlhen, of an architectural work is dependelt on two particulars: the thought and the feeling
ervinced, its form as resulting fromn a duty faithlfilly
and felicitously fulfilled, its form and surfaces as subsidiarily affected by feeling. The first is skill, mastery
of means; the second, ornament.
All the grander, stronger impressions of architecture are due to the first, the admirable obedience of
matter to mind, the powerful working of thought, successfiil execution following in Lthe steps of bold conception, with a clear reconciliation of members and
concurrence of offices in one leading object.   Without these, ornament becomes trivial and nugatory.  In
this respect, the beauty of the work depends on the
power  and precision of the thought.   By its power
in the pursuit of any end, it hits on the right relation, combination, or form; by its precision, it cuts
187 
ORNAMENT.
sway all that overlies and conceals its conception, and
reveals this riohlt combination or form in clear outline.  It equally rejects too much and too little, and
is only satisfied when its entire thlought is made visible
ill distinct contour. Power is seen in the arch, and
precision in the care with whiich it is cut to, without
infringing on, the curve of pressure, thus revealing
the line of force. So, too, the capital, column, and base
are wrought to their office, and have every exigenlcy
of their office chiseled into the lines of their form.
The swell, the bevel, the taper speak of the adding
of needful, or the cutting away of superfluous'material. For the full apprehension of this class of beauties
in architecture, we must know the dutty of each mnember in the variety of its offices.  Thus  only shall we
see the perfection of the form in which these are expressed and met.
The secondary element through  which  architecture
becomes  a fine art is ornament.   A  large  lnumber
of subsidiary beauties are due to this. The leading
end does not so definitively rule surfaces or the details of form, as not to suffer feeling, within certain
limits, to work upon these, and redeem them from a
blankness and poverty into which they would otherwise
fall. Unoccupied ground, for which neither thought,
nor feeling have done anything, unaffected by the exigencies of the work or the fancy of the worker, is
unpleasant   Ornament enters in to occupy the spaces
as yet unoccupied of art, to shape and modify form
within the limits of use.   Ornament  is not for this
reason extraneous or foreign to the building. It twines
itself into and beautifies the framework of the edifice,
as a vine clings to an arbor4-lattice, and is true ornla
]88
I 
LECTURE  XII.
ment only as it perfects the original design.   Sometimes the primary end will include more, sometimes
less, of this its rich and graceful accompaniment, and
true, chaste ornamentation will ever feel and respect
the limits thus assigned it.
Before proceeding to speak further of the classes
of architecture, we need to understand the resources
of the architect.
His standard materials are three,- stone, brick, wood,
-to which, for a variety of purposes, a fourth is now
added.  These materials are by no means equally abundant or good in all localities. Especially are the best
quarries limited in their range. Stone which is of a
uniform texture, firm, yet of easy cleavage, pleasing
in color and capable of being secured in large blocks,
is comparatively rare, and when present must always
exert a powerfill influence on arclhitecture.   Edifices
like those of Greece, with massive lintels, majestic and
smooth-chiseled columns, could not exist in less favored
regions. Adjacent rocks, whether gray granite, brown
sandstone, blue limestone, or marble, will at once give
character to the architecture of a city or province.
The more influential considerations in the stone at
the disposal of the artist are size, hardness, and color.
Stone which exists only in fragments, which is too
flaky to be quarried in solid blocks, precludes some
of the more imposing and perfect features of architecture.  The face and columns of an edifice of such
material must present the roughness of rubble compost, instead of a firm, homogeneous, and carefully
wrought surface. Small stones are inconsistent with
symmetry and lightness of form, sharp outline and
ornamental carving, and will sometimes demand a sir
189 
.IvMATERIALfS.
face coat of mortar  b-)v which  the trite character of
the buiildinlg is lost.   A  very hard stone  discourages
the chisel, and  lies less firmly in the wall;  a very
soft stone fails to retaii the labor expended ulpon it,
and  both  reuiders, anid seems  to  reider, the edifice
insecure.  A degree of hardness which leaves the stone
suisceptible to thle workman's tlought, and, at the sim
time retentive of it, must ever be influential  oin tihe
character of the work, especially on its ornament.
In the colors of stone  there is certainly  a choice,
but more important in color than original shade are
uniformity and durability.   Stoies of a mixed  character and chaigeable color greatly detract from the
effect.   In some climates at least the purest marble
seems less appropriate than granite or sandstone for
out-door work, as too little suiited to escape the soil
and stain of the elements.   The sober gray of solid
granite is well fitted for tile harsh seaboard of New
England.   Upon  this original character and the  particiular office of the stone will depend  the propriety
of a  roghl  or  smooth  finish.   The  coarse-grailed
stones, made to face the stormins, are often left to advantage in  their fresh native  cleavage, the  chiseled
edges alone marking the attention and care of the
workman. There are a certain boldness anid rapidity
of workmanship in these rough Titan blocks, a distiiiguislhiig between what is necessary and what may be
dispensed with, that often render the effect most pleasing.  Stones from their texture capable of a perfect polish, or somewhat more sheltered in the position assigned
them, or bearing orniament, demand a careful finish.
Brick, as a material of the artist, is greatly inferior
to stonle, entirely precludes carving, requires a cornice
190 
LECTUR'E XII.
and coliiumni  wholly its own, and, tlhough not incapal)le
of reaching considerable excellence, must ever be elntirely inadequate for the best work.
Small buildings suffer less than large buildings from
this material.  The dwelling with no broad surfaces and
with considerable variety of outline, may employ it to
advantage.   It deserves to be questioned, whether tle
prevalent method of pencilling, by which each brick is
carefully distinguished, is not a vicious treatment drawmig attention to the tale of brick rather than overcomingi their inherent difficulty, their too great divisibility, and uniting them in a uniform surface.
The fact, tlat paint both for mechanical and ssthetical reasons is righltly applied to brick, testifies to their
inherent weakness.
Wood, as the framework and outside of a building,
has as advantages, the facility with wlhich it receives
form, and renders a smoothl surface, and usually its
cheapness; as disadvantages, its deficiency inll strength,
durability, and for some climates at least, in protection.
Tlhese defects are less serious in small buildings than
in large, and, while wood can never dispute the field
withl stone in any important work, it may  often displace brick ill dwellings and more transient structures.
Wood in outside work requires paint, but certainly not
that white paint which, in full light, is to the eye
the most painful and glaring of colors, and finds no
sympathy ill niature, unless it be in the chaste shroud
of the buried year, in wilnter, the tomb of living beauty.
In cities, iron) begins t o occupy ground once  possessed by brick and stone, withl this loss, that it makes
the most elaborate architecture relatively  cheap  and
coltelmptible.  Capitals and cornice, cast by a patterni,
191 
IRON..
ceasing to have tile feeling, will cease to have the value
which attaches to the product of the chisel. There
must be a certain amount of personality back of even
the )est work to sustain its value. Flowers which exactly repeated each other would lose our sympathy.
BuLildings succeeding each other ill mechanical exactness of imnitation divide and subdivide, and finlally. destroy, our interest.  A  hundred thousand engravings
cannot each have at their disposal the power of the
first pailiting, but only some remote  fraction of it.
Every impression wlich falls from the plate places us
one remove further from the cenltre of interest and
art, the mind of the worker.   This principle must
and will be regarded in architecture.   That which is
wrought in stone with freedom and freshness of thought
will strive in pattern and outline to distinguish itself
from, and to assert its superiority over, the now vulgar
herd of orniamelts which  have but one thought for
a thousand, and multiply themselves with less care
and variety than pebbles on a beach.
When we pass to the material of inside architecture, the variety is greater, though the pre-eminence
still remains with wood and stonle, this difference only
being marked, that wood has now more extensive,
numerous, and striking adaptations than stone.   The
many varieties of wood present themselves in the native beauty of their internal structure inll all richer
work, no longer requiring the protection or suffering
the disguise of paints.  Thle lightness, toughness, elasticity, and warmth of wood, the ease with which it is
worked,  and the beauty of its veining, give  it for
many purpose a fitness, a natural superiority over the
colder and less tractable marbles and metals.  Elabo
192 
LECTURE XII.
rate work in ivory and the precious metals owes the
esteem in which it is held quite as much to superior
cost as to superior beauty.   In the less costly, though
not the less dear and influential, architecture of the
home, paints, papers, and plaster must find admission
as the cheap plianit materials of taste, and from an
honest yet skilful handling may receive no small share
of value.
The final constituents of the building are the materials now spokein of; but there is also a subdivision
of the building itself into certainii parts or members,
which are to be treated separately, and which present
distinct problems to the architect. The more distinct
and important of these demand separate mention.
First is the wall.   This has several members, the
broad foot or base partly hidden in the soil by which it
connects itself with, and firmly rests upon, the ground;
the vail, or wall proper, which, reduced in thickness,
rests on this base; and the cornice or top of the wall
which, with its broad surface, receives and evenly diffuses the weight of the roof, and  with its projecting
mouldings sheds the water.   The base and the cornice, the one in its nearness, the other in its projection,
present prominent features for outline and orlament.
The wall is usually sought both for shelter and support; it may have the latter office only.  In that case,
the wall-vail is rolled as it were into a series of columnls, their capitals and bases even more distinct and
careftully treated than in the wall.
\Vitll no especial pllilosopl-y or correctness, earlier archlitecture, more especially Grecian alrchitecture, lias been
divided by the character of the capital which  these coluiinns llave received. The capitals are not so distinct or
193 
LECTURE XII.
so controlling features of modern architecture as to claim
the position assigned them in this classification. Thle wallvail perpetually tends to blank surfaces. These, aside fioin
ornament, are broken in several ways.  The building may
divide itself into stories, into distinct strata by a balnd
of new and more firm material. This will most readily
occutr ill a building of brick by the insertion of a layer
of broad, uniform  stone.  The wall may  strengthen
itself by half-merged columns or pilasters, and thus
reach the required end with an economy of material
and change of surface. The wall may support itself
against the lateral thrust of the roof by a tower or
by a buttress. But that which more than anything
else relieves the wall are the apertures for the admission of persons and of liglht.  The door-way is a
leading feature inll any building.   With its deep and
broad recess, open janibs, arch-liead, and folding leaves,
the favorite seat of ornlament; or with its single leaf
and straight contour, it is at once sought by the eye.
The greater the surface of wall, the larger, more imposing and beautifil shlould be the entrance, from the
increased dignity of its office, from the relief it fturnishles the eye, and from tlhe interpretation which it
gives to the mind of the purpose of the edifice.  Ordinary entrances to great buildings at once reduce
them in character.
As far as size is concerned, the same is true, ill a
somewhat less degree, of apertures for the admission
of light.  These, as more numerous and secondary in
office, though less important members of the building
than the door-ways, are yet the principal feature of
the side walls, and thus require the chief attention.
They are liabl)e to lose their value firom barrenness
194
9
m 
LECTURE XII.
of form, and monotonous repetition. A wall-vail with
square apertures at fixed intervals is scarcely less
blank than when unpierced. These disadvantages are
often needlessly incurred, often directly sought after.
The square, plain lintel is preferred to the carved and
arched lintel, an irregular or triangular space is occIupied by a square aperture, small windows are inserted
at short intervals, without reference to use, and evenii
against use, as if the first axiom of architecture were
the greatest number of windows in the most regular
ranks,  with the least in each  of individual  value.
Windows that stand  in precisely the same  relations
cannot, indeed, be readily varied in form, but the value
of each should be made as great as possible, their number reduced, and, with each change of relation, as in
passing from story to story, or from a broad surface
to one restricted in extent, or irregular in outline, the
contour should be varied.  Correct taste will qutickly
show its growth in the treatment of windows, thrustimg aside the much sought after uniformity, and giving
to each window or rank of windows its own ditty and
character.   They  can  only thus become  interesting
features, relieving the wall of which they form a part.
In the wall, as adjtuncts, are included the base, the
cornice, the capital, the column, the band, the pilaster,
the buttress, the turret, the door, and the window, with
their arch-hleads, jambs, and lintels.
The second leading member of the edifice is the
roof   Though  quite separable  in office, and usually
in form, we shall treat under this term the covering
of tle passage-way and of the enclosure.  The passageway is roofed for support, the enclosure for shelter.
The space-way of the door and of the window must
1'95 
ROOF.
1)o spanned, in order that the wall may proceed above
it.  The piers of the bridge must be iuniited, that the
stream may find passage beneath, and the travel flow
on above, the two currents interwoven, but unobstructed.
The tunnel arched in the loose soil gives transit without removing the obstacle.  In these and similar cases,
thle passage-way may be regarded as ai aperture in a
a wall of greater or less thickness, and the questioln
to be, How shlall tle streiigthl of thle wall be maintaiiied, the portions above findiong adequate support?
The most simple metliod, as in the door-way or the
culvert, is to pass a timber or a flat stone of adeqtuate dimensions from side to side.  The cornices of
the Greek porches and colonnades were so slupported,
resting on tlhe capitals, and sustained in the intervals
by the tenacity of the material.   This metlhod, tlhough
simple, has in all work of brick and stone, where the
wei,lght is great, most serious difficulties.  It demands
the most favorable material, taxes the strength of that
material to the utmost,  is unab)le safely to span a
broad passage, and substitutes a barren strailght line
for the most pleasing curves.
The arch, once discovered, by its superior aptness
largely displaced the flat lintel where either strength
or beauty  was  desired.   It is only minor  passageways, bearing no great burden, in which  this weak
and barren form is oftenest used.   To  tlhe windows
and door-ways of wooden  edifices, the consideration
of strength real or apparent does not apply, but only
that of beauty.  There will be freedom amd variety in
the curve of the arch in proportion as the pressure
relaxes.   As  this increases, the arch will bow itself
to the burden, and approximate the curve of great
196 
LECTURE XII.
est strength.   The wise artist will strive not to conceal, but to reveal in the contour of the included
aperture the character of the duty which the arch is
performing, cutting close to the curve of pressure when
this is stringent and severe.   The arch is frequently
limited in the height to which it may rise.  It may
strike, as over the window, into a high and sharp
point, or, as in spanning the river, it may  be compelled to lie low and broad in a flat arc, dipping in
its transit like an aquatic bird close to the water.
The number of the offices which the arch can perform, and the ease and variety of the methods in which
it meets  them  all, impart to it great beauty.   The
forms which  it assumes  are thoroughly  thoughtful,
and may well, therefore, be beautiful.
It is the generic office of an arch to bear a burden.
It is this very burden which consolidates and strengthens it, and enables the piers and abutments to endure
its side thrust.  It is not for this reason so well fitted
for mere shelter.  The high thin walls which sustain
the roof of a building must, as tar as possible, be
relieved from all lateral pressure, and an arch resting
upoln these without stronig and low girders would result in their immediate  overthrow.   The roofs of ellclosures therefore are often so constructed as to re(li't(e
all pressure to vertical lines, to the su)pport of their
own  weight.   This is more  especially necessary  in
large buildings,- ini buildings of stone and brick lwhere
the opposilng walls are less perfectly girded  to each
other.  Flat roofs supported by the walls and included
partitions have no architectural interest, and will only
exist in cities, where the roof of the dwelling is uiseen; in countries where the roof is the resort of the
197 
PITCH OF ROOF.
inmates; and in buildings in one feature at least with.
out architectural claims.   Iin most  buildings which
stand independent, the roof not only diverts the storms,
but incloses a valuable space, -is not a mere floor
laid flatly on to cover an open top, but an expressive
and completing member of manifold offices. These
roofs in their most simple forms are composed of
two planes-in their more complex forms they contain no new principle - inclined against each other,
which by action in exactly opposite directions, neutralize each in each, through interior connections, every
other pressure but that of weight, and rest as one
integral burden on the side walls, or on those interior
supports which the purposes of the building may suffer
it to render.  Such roofs present, without, broad surfaces and high gables, and within, the deep recesses
of nave and transept.  These vaulted ceilings -  in the
large spaces they give, in the grand, airy way in which
they perform their office, in the suggestions which
they furnish in their complicated lines and interlacing
timbers of mechanical  skill and power, and in the
mnany  poilnts wlhich they present for ornament -are
favorite and noble features in archl-itecture.
In the expression of a roof, its pitch, the eaves, the
tile, the balustrade, and chimneys, are the salient points.
A steep pitch is connected with a severe and rugged
climate, both historically and through its greater ability
to shed the siow and hail of a bleak region.   The
sharp angles of such a structure give it a more bold
and defiant appearance, and tlie resulting extent of
roof surface perpetually reminds one of the importalnt
office this member  discharges.   A  flat roof, on the
other hand, lies more concealed, sinking with the mild
198 
LECTURE XII.
ness of the climate into a secondary office and from
under vision.
Entirely in harmony  with this, the low  roof frequently receives a balustrade whose vertical surface
conceals it, and presents a more pleasing object than
a plane lying so nearly edgewise to the eye. The
steep roof, on the other hand, takes various colored,
ornamental, diamond,  or crested  tile, and then ventures to lift itself, an unbroken plane to the eye, or
with here and there a gable.  The chimney also becomes
a more conspicuous and henlce more important object
in the steep than in the flat roof. Projecting eaves,
though not necessarily confined to either style of roof,
are more frequently associated with the sharp angle.
Such eaves then leave at the top of the wall deep,
sheltered, and shady. recesses, dispensing with cornice
and removing ornameilt-to the roof edge, and in the
gables to the verge-board.   The flat roof with projecting eaves opens up these recesses, and prepares
the way for showy brackets. A broad, heavy, Grecian
cornice demands a large building with a flat roof and
slight projection. The massive stone-work of our larger
public edifices prepares the way for this form of covering.
The dome, akin in effect to the vaulted roof, is also
nearly allied to the arch.   A  section of the arch revolved around  the crown-point gives the dome.   In
the dome, the height of the arch, the smallness of
the  burden,  and  strength  of material,  reduce  the
lateral thrust, and no work in architecture expresses
greater airiness, lightness, and facility of position.  The
roof includes among its adjuncts, the balustrade, gable,
spire, and dome.
199 
LECTURE XIII.
ARCHITECTURE.- PROTECTIVE ARCHITECTURE: DWELLING,
FARM-HOUSE, COTTAGE, VILLA, CHURCHES. - CHARACTER.
-PUBLIC BUILDINGS.
HAVING  seen both the material at the disposal of
the architect, ald the prominelilt members into whlich
tlhis is first combined, we may better understand some
of the leading asthetical ends to be reached in  the
several classes of architecture.   These are incidental
to a complete fulfilmelt of the purpose, wvithl its nutimerous specifications, for which the building is, or slould
be erected.  In protective architecture, we shlall only
refer to tlree of its more important kinds of structure, dwellings, churches, and public buildings.
Dwellings,  though  not  givii)g opportunity for  the
highest architecture, are, nevertlheless, through  their
greater number  and their immediate coinnection with
the daily wants and feelings of all men, a most interesting class of structures.   The taste of a people
,s more indicated and trained by these tlhan by any
other buildings.   As the dwelling expresses and  fulfils the wants of a single family, good taste here precltldes arrogance and parade, oil thle principle before
presented in lanidscape gardening: The real wanlts of
the family are in themselves limited.  Too much lhas
in it something, of the same  cmbarrassment  as too
little.   Extravagant dimensions  and  elaborate  olrna 
LECTURE XIII.
ment bespeak an expenditure utterly uncalled for by
the end to be reached; worse than this, ill a world
yet full of hovels, it speaks of an eager, selfish gluttony of enjoyments, a willingness to waste on cumbersome and awkward luxuries the wealth plucked from
a famishing world; it stands in fiat contradiction to
the true democratic spirit and equality of men. The
Clhristian citizen sinks into a cuilninig and ravenous
though tasteful creature gathering ilto lhis ownl lair
the most possible of prey.  The bulilding which represents character, moral purpose, and principle, the beautiful. building, will always show a tacit submission of
private pleasures to the public good,- a  modest  appreciation of one's self wlhen weilghed with  a world.
A  baronial mansion implies superior rights, deep-seated
hereditary inequalities.  The mind that really believes
in, and  delights inl man, will find  slight cominpenisatioii for the beauty which should attach itself to every
lhome, in the magnlificent residence of some lordling.
That which rightly belongs to industry and ilitelligence is essentially the same for all.  The dwelling
which shows the lavish prodigality of fortune toward
a favorite teaches thie immorality of chance governnmeit and of irresponsible expenditure.   The dwelling
which  shows  what skill and taste  can do with ordinary resources exhibits tihe benieficence of God, and
the grateful appreciation of man, and, no longer the
despair of poverty, becomes to all the stimulus of
hopeful exertion.
The style of good domestic architecture will naturally distinguish itself from that of public buildings
in the material employed, the size and adaptations of
the edifice, and in the expenditure for whlich it pro
201 
DWELLINGS.
vides. Obvious as is this principle, it has been largely
overlooked inll this country, and one of the most inappropriate of styles for domestic purposes has  been
more  frequently  than  any  other employed  in our
dwellings.
A  heavy Grecian cornice is habitual with us, and
massive Grecian columns not unfrequent. The largest
marble temples find their absurd imitation in the pine
dwelling, a most complete and unthinking oversight
of the expression and proprieties of the Grecian style.
Domestic architecture admits of much variety, but in
all forms- its bracketted and Gothic, northernu and
southern- it should recognize the quiet simplicity of
its purpose, the lightness and cheapness of its material, and be cautious of borrowing from more dignified
and imposing buildings.
The first exertion of taste results in uniformity,the careful repetition of single forms, through a rectangular building, - this barren order the mind first
opposes to disorder. This result is strictly incipient;
the taste at once wearies of it, and substitutes regularity,-a careful correspondence of opposite members.
This it may take with it into many of its noblest
works. Regularity, by which the building can be divided into two halves, each the counterpart of the
other, may admit great variety, and, in the larger
edifices, where the number of members is in itself
great, may serve to give a noble unity and power to
the work. In the dwelling, however, where the parts
are few, it stands but a single step in advance of
uniformity, and is frequently displaced by symmetry.
Downing defines this as that balance of opposite parts
necessary to form an agreeable whole, but includes in
9*
202 
LECTURE XIII.
it much we have assigned to regularity.  A  syminetrical building is balanced about a centre, or central
plane, not by the exact correspondence of opposite members, but by a general equality of weight and power.
With these definitions, the human form is regular;
the well-formed tree is symmnetrical.   Regularity, in
its somewhat sterner rule, may exist in the highest
work, and does not altogether lose its power when
it becomes the balancing of a few simple members.
When regularity, either through the fewness or weakness of the parts, or through the want of any adequate
reason for its somewhat mechanical arrangement, becomes barren, it may with advantage be displaced by
symmetry. The purposes of domestic architecture require no exact balance of parts; indeed, more frequeiitly they assign a new office., and hence a distinct
form, to each distinct part.
As the edifice presents vertical and horizontal lines
in constant contrast, and as the length of these in any
given relation is not a matter of accident, but to be
carefully determined by the purpose which unites them,
there arises a demand for proportion. This we apprehenld means no absolute relation of numbers to each
other, implies no intrinsic agreement between dimensiolns, but rests solely on a right choice of length and
breadth adapted to the particular end in view.
A dwelling will have beauty in proportion as it has
character, and character is here an expression in all its
forms, its adaptations of thought  and feeling.   The
dwelling should not disguise itself under a false or a
stereotyped form, but seek to be vocal, -to utter all its
immediate purposes and relations. Ini obedience to this
radical necessity of expression,
A'
203
v 
COTTAGE.-  VILLA.
(a.) The domestic edifice shows what it is,- a dwelling or a barn.
(b.) It shows what kind of a dwelling it is,- a farmhouse, a cottage, a villa.
Country houses possess a great advantage over city
houses.  Their architecture is not reduced to a single
surface: they have four instead of one or two sides.
They are not compelled, through want of land, to spilldle up into the air, but may occupy what space they
choose.  They have roofs, aid inot merely another floor.
But country residences, as between themselves, have distilct objects.  A farm-house has occasion to accommodate many and peculiar domestic operations.  This fact
it will take no paiilis to conceal, but will spread itself
broadly on the ground, since the lower story is chiefly
useful to it, and it possesses the land. The farmer's
table is marked by its homely and abundant fare; his
dwelling, by its many conveniiences for various forms of
domestic labor, and by its rural comforts.
The cottage -a term of vague application, but chiefly
dependent on size, designatilng dwelliiigs of moderate
dimensions and vaguely involvilng some notioni of taste
-is in the country the house of men of limited means,
whether of a mechanical or professional calling.  It
primarily provides for domestic wants, with a somewhat
sparing recogiiitioii in the parlor of social eujoyments.
It differs from the farmhouse in making no provision
for the production of any form of food, but only for its
preparation for the table when furnished.  These  are
the houses which belong to our villages, with a slim
retinue of out-buildings, and an increasing height and
value to the second story.
The villa designates a mansionl, a larger form of
N
204 
LECTUR,E  XIII.
dwelling, and is usually in this country the home of the
wealthy. Here the abuse of wealth commences, and yet
there is a field which both taste and morals should be
glad to recognize. The villa, so far as it is not the ostentations effervescence of wealth, makes broader provision
than the cottage for intellectual and social wants. The
library, the drawing-room, and the tower become distinct features, and enjoyment gains ground upon simple
living and labor.  If this takes place to the exclusion of
labor, a subordinate is reached in the destruction of a
primary end.  None can doubt that life may be rightly
unfolded on its social and literary side, always providing
that it falls not thereby into a vicious thouglh fashionable indolence, into a useless though costly dilettanteism. These social forms of life, as shown in the dwelling, give it character, - enrich it by the manifold functions which it is seen to perform.
(c.) The dwelling should also receive character from
its position, the objects in nature which surround it.
In a warm climate and broad, sunny plains, it may be
less compact, less sharp and angular, than in a rugged,
mountainous region; may have more light, ample, and
numerous verandas, and lie in the cool shade of deciduous trees. The home commanding valuable scenery
will make provision, in tower, balcony, or veranda, for
its enjoyment, and, occupying beautiful grounds, will
have retired windows and sallying-points whence the
inmates may go forth.
(d.) Another source of character in the dwelling is
the transferred character of the inmate.  Unfortunately
the building more often suffers from this than is benefited by it, and in no way more frequently than by an
ambitious attempt to secure architectural effect witlout
N,i
205 
HONESTY. - VAI', fETY.
adequate resources,  to transfer features  that only
appropriately belong to more costly work in a modified
and flimsy form to cheaper material. The cottage tlhus
loses the honest simplicity, the expression of homely
comfort and self-respect, which belongs to it, and is
made up of mean imitations, showing on the one side
a foolish envy, oni the other. a foolish vanity.
If, however, honesty and simplicity characterize the
builder, the building will often be favorably effected by
the precise phase of his desires. Scarcely do any two
families wish the same internal arrangement, the same
variety and order of apartments, and with each new
combination of wants there will appropriately and naturally be present a modified form. It is the province of
every good artist, within the flexible arrangements of
the given style of architecture, to express these individual types of social life.  Notlhing so iiltimately related
to the family as the dwelling can rightly fail to receive
form and character from it. All strong, rational life
inevitably affects its instruments.
The true home, in the multiplicity of its offices, has a
law for every part, ain expression for every member, and
if it falls short in the dignity of any one of these, it
finds ample compensation in their variety and aggregate
importance. Nor is the inside of the dwelling less fruitful in sources of character. Eachl room has a distinct
object, and therein the basis of distinct treatment. No
building, therefore, may be more individual, full, and
human in its character than the dwelling, -the lodgement of thoughtful, emotional man.
Another most important and distinct class of buildings in protective architecture are those connected with
religion. Many of the most costly and splendid edifices
206 
LFCTURE XIII.
of all nations and countries llave owed  their origill to
religioil, and have been coinnected with worship.  It is
evident, that these edifices will receive character from
the immediate purpose they are intended to subserve,from tlhe religion with whicl  they stand connected and
from national traits.  A  religion that receives its form
from solemn ritual and costly ceremolnial - which expresses its estimate of worship in visible gifts and mailnal work-will put forthl its strelgth, ingenuity, and
feeling to rear a temple, or temples, adorned with all tlhat
the most expenlsive architecture call confer.  In such a
faithl, the temple  is the emblem, the embodiment of
worsllip, and as such must not lack anything which an
aroused heart and free hald cali give.   So stood the
Jewish temple, in its rich magiificence a religious work,
reverence and faithl tralsmuted into stone and tle precious metals.  Onl the other lhand, as a religion forsakes
the visible for the iiivisib)le, the formal for the spiritual,
its edifices sink from the necessities of worship to the
conveniences of worship, from direct religious gifts to
God, carrying tle heart over in actual recogition and
adoratioii, to an antecedent preparation, having its end,
iot ill worship, but in the wants of worshippers.  Such
are Christian churches.  They do inot embody the worship of those who worship in them, nor express their
sense of what man should render to God:  they are a
social and religious ilistrument for a social and religious
end, and are to be judged as means ill fullfilling this
end.
Aside from the direct object of a religious edifice, it is
evident that the general spirit of the religion, as developed( in the faith and  lives of those who  rear the
ciurchel, will impart to it certaili corresponding qualities.
207 
208
Reverence  and fear, sligltly tinctured  withl love  and
hope, will hleap up solemn, grand, and gloomy piles,
where the heart worships, yet a great way off from its
God; where the feelings cail only rise a'nd fall with the
slow, measured surge of the organ.   A faith which puts
sliglt restraint on its votaries, whose new birth is under
tle lead of old notions, will in its religious edifices
develop the same pride, exclusion, love of cost and
display wlichl  may chance to characterize its wealthy
adherents in  their personal  expenditures.   Or, perchance, a cultivated taste and ilntense love of art will
baptize itself into a religious name, and strictly under
its old impulses, become at its new altar the devotee of
architecture.  Oii the other hand, a faith which is borni
into the kingdom of Christ will in every act remember
that his kingdom is not of this world, -will iu all thiat
it does show a superior and controlling sense of spiritutal relations and religious duties.  The costly catliedrals of the old world, and their imitations with us,
admirable as may be their workmanship, we apprehend,
have  spriung out of an impure  Christian faith,  and
cannot purely, rightly, beautifully embody a faith which
rests on Christ of Calvary.
These works, so grand in themselves and oftentimes
so truly related to the untrue, or rather partial, faith
which gave rise to them, have necessarily drawn forth
much devotion from  students of art, —have inclined
them to overlook the fact that they find no place in the
simplicity of the Christian ritual, and to treat but scornfully any criticism which rejects these edifices as untrue
to Christian character.   We shall sternly insist on the
principle of subordination, that pre-eminently in the field
Qf her own architecture is the law of religion superior
f
CHURCHES. 
LEC'ITURE XIII.
to the law of beauty, or rather, that beauty only exists
in the perfect fulfilment of the law and spirit of religion.
Before, therefore, we can pronounce the cathedral an
appropriate or inappropriate form of chlurchl edifice, we
must know the purpose of the Protestant C4lturell, the
religious spirit which expresses itself in it.  That church
is the most beautiful which most truly contalls and
utters that spirit.  The edifice cannot be separated from
its purpose and the true character of its worshippers,
but must, as by induction, receive this purpose and
share this character.
(a.) A church is strictly an assembly-room for a
social end, -worship.  In many  climates, the stately
dimensions and the high, vaulted roofs of Gothic churches are not fitted for comfort, and do not meet the very
end of protection which instituted them. They are not
auditories, having feeble adaptations either for speaker
or hearer.  They do not inspire that cheerful and sympathetic feeling which should belong to an audincce of
Christian neighbors, and involve an expense altogether
beyond  that requisite to meet  the real ends  of the
edifice.  In thus overlooking the lhighest comfort of the
audience, and  the very fact that it is an atdielice,
inspiring feelings more or less alien to eheerfutl faith,
they override the religious end whilch calls them forth
with an Tstlietieal end of their own, and thus, in their
unfitness, are no  more  beautifiul churches than they
would be beautiful dwellings.
(b.)  Regarded  as the exhibition of private generosity, they are as often the medium of pride as of geniiuine benevolence.
(c.)  The very proprieties and associations of these
costly edifices invite to lavish expenditure in dress,
2C9 
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE.
and are thus increasingly liable to become  the exclusive possession of those who can afford an exp)ensive Gospel.   The  crownling proof of Christianity is
thus lost, -the poor have the Gospel preached  unto
them. The atmosphere of the place becomes one of
ease, affluence, self-indulgence, wholly alien to the humility, self-denial, and love which  are the peculiar,
the working forces of the new and spiritual kingdom
of Christ. Thle difficulty lies in the spirit of the place
and of the audience, - a spirit which manifests itself
in the ostentatious architecture, the rich, gloomy grandeur of the edifice, in the costly garments, in the cold
propriety and courtly dignity of the audience.  There
is no self-denial, no condescension, no humility anywhere manifest: the people are in Ino sense a "peculiar people," unless it be for their universal display
of wealth.
Such a temper, so far as it prevails, first enervates,
then destroys Christianity.  Tile catholic breadth, Ihumility, and thlus grandeur, of its work should be written in most legible characters on the lintels and doorposts  of all its structures.   The  manger  and  the
cathedral are a long way apart, not less in spirit than
in form. The one speaks of a kingdom and glory
laid aside, the other of it resumed; the one, of the
invisible overruling the visible and banishing it, the
other of the visible once more striving to draw back
and imprison in its pomp and majesty the invisil)le;
the one walks  by faith, the  other  by  sighlt.   The
cathedral is neither inference, application, nor improvement of the text, " My kingdom is not of this world."
The massive cathedral, with its echoing arches and unfathomed recesses, makes fitting response to thie mys
210
I 
LECTURE XIII.
tic rites of Popery, but the quick, sympathetic love
of the Christian heart is congealed ill its cold shadow.
(d.) The expense of these edifices precludes their
use as Christian churches. In a world for the most
part destitute of churches, the Christian and missionary spirit must be identical. Every effort must have
reference to conquest, and that which shows indolelnce,
weakness of desire, a willingness to tarry amid private
enljoymenets, a partial and  hesitating surrender of resources to the only effort known to Christianity, deflies the cross and  the gospel of self-sacrifice.   We
first suffer with Christ, and afterward reign with  him.
Costly architecture reigns by anticipatioln, reigns without Christ, and, by its premature prodigality, loses its
right to reign with him.  It is yet the hour of labor
in which indulgence is treachery, and labor and love,
not repose, must be written on the church, as on every
other tablet of our  faith.   Christianity -  a spiritual
democracy - must have faith in its ownl broad prilciples, in its own humility, and feel tllhat all which
limits it, concentrates it, gathlers it up into classes, establishlments, institutions, edifices, by making it partial,
makes it poor and weak for its world-wide work.
That church architecture is best which has most of
inspiration in it, of Chlristian, Christ-like character, of
cheerful, ilclusive love, of self-denial, of the invisible
reigning over and reigninig in the visible under the
type of Calvary. It should be a true, pure represelitation of the Cliristiaii spirit, not towering in the midst
of poverty with ostentatious luxury, not vaulting its
costly decorations while men perish of spiritual destitution, but cheerful, free, serviceable, and under these
conditions tasteful, inviting and entertaining all with
211 
PUBLIC EDIFICES.
Christian accord.  An expensive chulrch, in the light
of the demand which the world is everywhere making
for money, callnot stand as a fitting expression of the
Christian spirit; it is at best but the utterance of
Christian pride or Christian forgetfulness.
A third form of protective architecture, giving full
play to the artist's power, calling for noble and stable
forms, and justifying large  expenditure,  are  public
buildings. These express the streligth, stability, and
wealth of a nation; and a nation does well to lend
itself liberally to the public service. Colleges, all institutions of leariiiiig, in  their  intrinsic value  and
durability, in the claim  which may  be made  upon
them for good taste, and as representing oir devotion
to knowledge, fitriishl appropriate fields for the most
various archlitecture.  Tile noblest styles of the past,
Grecian and Gothic, may reappear in the service of
knowledge and of government.
Archlitectutre of support is so restricted and so thloroughly utilitarian ill its office as rarely to appear in
the field of fine arts.   The bridge and aqueduct are
its best strutctures.
Commemorative  architecture, on the other hand, is
slightly ruled by utility. Permanence is the leading
law of form, and within this limit all appropriate and
beautiful expression may be sought. Tlhis very freedom  renders fine monuments  difficult of attainment,
and they need as far as possible to be individualized
by the character of the particular event intrusted to
them.
Having reviewed some of the resources and aims of
architecture, we need to speak of a distinct, subordi nate element it frequently employs, - ornament. Orna
212 
LECTURE XIII.
mentation may vary form within the limits of use, or
it may occupy with work of its own void spaces, thus
imparting additional fulness and interest to the edifice.
This ornament will always be subsidiary in its relations and in the impression it makes upon the mind.
The general outline, character, and office of the edifice
will first occupy attentioii, and only later, when partially satisfied, will the mind turn to the details of
treatment, and glean the pleasure of ornament, - the
completion of what is in itself noble.
(a.) The carving of ornament will rarely be conmplete, but rather be suggestive and symbolical, drawn
from those forms of life which most readily admit this
treatment. This results from the rough character of
the material which receives its work, being the surfaces
which the building itself may afford; from the permanent and often exposed position of the product; from
the rude chiselling of ordinary workmen who are to be
employed; and from the facts, that the building as a
whole, and not its parts, is the object of the artist, that
careful imitation ii unipliaiit and coarse material is less
pleasing than[ bold strokes, and that the cost of the
edifice will not suffer that each member should be made
a separate subject of fine art.
Archlitecture does not, even in its ornament, infri,ge
the domain of sculpture. The one is rapid and representative, the other accurate  and presentative.  The
archlitect, while not content to leave his stone entirely
blank, does not wish to cut any member into so lhigh ail
effect as to destroy its character as a subordinate feature, while the sculptor expends his whole power oni a
single thing, and makes it the great and costly product
of his art. The architect works through mainy agents,
213 
ORNAMENT.
and leaves a product great in mass, though weak inii
separate members; the sculptor works alone, and leaves
a product small in mass, but condensed and potent ill
expression.
(b.) The ornament of the architect will grow elaborate and careful in proportion as the position assigned it
is sheltered and near at hand.  Wise art shows economy
by giving its rough chiselling to exposed parts, and by
treating its work in size and finish according to the
height of the position from which it is to present itself.
This is to adapt the object to the end to be reached.
(c.) According as the architect has given fulness,
variety, and force to the outline of his building without
and within, will the work of ornamentation be obvious
and easy. In a form already fruitful, it becomes wholly
secondary, and readily occupies the limited spaces left
it.  On the other hand, if the building is barren in
design, the most judicious ornament will still leave it
feeble in expression, and the difficulty of reaching this
ornament will be found proportionately great.
This is well illustrated in the ceililg of a large hall.
If the architecture has made notlidng of it, but left it
one blank surface, the utmost skill of decoration will
but partially repair the defect.  In architecture, as elsewhere, the less the reliance placed on ornament, the
more strictly it remains secondary, the greater will be
the vigor and power of the work. Amid the earnest
workings of thought, adapting limited resources to unyielding ends, ornament comes in as the transient play
of passing feelings, —the affection with whichl the mind
executes its conceptions.
Architecture and gardening of all the fine arts are of
the most broad and practical interest. Here especially
214 
LECTURE NIII.
is the popular taste awakened and cultivated. A paint,
ing or statuette poorly atoniies for a desolate dwelling
and dreary yards. The beauty of a country, as well as
the taste of its inhabitants, will depend chiefly on these
two arts, and these alone render appropriate the presence of the higher and more condensed products of
beauty. Beauty intertwines itself by root and stem with
these utilities of our comn'oil life, and later bears as
blossoms the choice labors of highl art.
A class of structures that have received the earliest and
imost continuous attention are those connected witl  religion.  The progress and forms of architecture can 1)be
mnore easily and exactly traced in connection with these
than with any other edifices.  The chief architectural
feature of the Egyptian temple was the colonnade.   This
surrounded one or more courts, and formed the front of
the temple proper.   The interior rooms of the temple,
the cell and its ante-chambers, were inconsiderable and
inconspicuous parts of the architecture.  In general outline, the temple of Solomon was not unlike those of Egypl)t.
The Egyptian column was massive, not fitted in form with
precision to its office, and placed at short intervals.   The
general impression was, therefore, heavy and gloomy.  One
wandered between huge pillars, rather than entered into
openl, cheerful spaces.  The support was excessive and
somewhat clumsy.
In the Grecian and Roman  temple, the colonnade still
remained the chief feature, thourghl its arrangement was
diffirent.  Instead of enclosing a court, it ran across til,e
fiont of the edifice, or, as in the Parthenon, entirely suri()tlnded it. The Grecian temple was built for the oulltsidle
rather than the inside.  Its chief inmpression was tlhe exterior one, produced by its series of COlinilis.  These now
215 
LECTURE XIII.
received the most elegant and precise forms, and, with
wider spaces, yielded adequate but not superabundant sup port.  The impression of a Greek temple was chiefly due
to its horizontal lines.  From these the vertical lines start ed, and in themi they terminated. The spaces to be
spanned were broad: the fiieze, therefore, having to sus tain a corresponding pressure, became  proportionately
broad.  A  plaini surface, just beneath the projection of
tile cornice, it became a favorite and sheltered position for
carived ornament, encircling the entire building. In this
respect it had no rival except the pedimenits at each end.
Thle coliiun, with its base and capital, became in Grecian
art so symmnetrical, so exactly fitted in form to its office,
so proportionate, and so beautifully united to the grand ornate masses that rested upon it, that skill could go no fartlier in this direction.  This order of architecture was
comnplete, perfect; and progress must come with a change
of idea.
The Roman furnished the conception that was to give
this new direction. The arch was not unknown to previous, to Egyptian art; but it had not subserved any conspictuous or important purpose. The false arch, chiefly
employed in India, has not the essential characteristic of
tlthe arch. The pressure in it is wholly vertical, the stones
sustaining each other by their breadth: the upper ones
overlap the lower ones, and at length, from each si(de,
mneet at the summit.  The arch was first used, and chiefly
usedl, by tlhe Romnans in connection with Greek features
of' architecture, and thus gave a mingled style known as
Roinanesqile.   We shall understand this best in connection with Christian churches.  These churches grew in
formi out of tihe Rotnan basilica,-a court ofjustice and a
216 
GREEK AND ROMIAN ARCHITECTURE.
place for popullar assembolies.   The basilica, in the Greek
form, was a quadrangle enclosed by a colonnade;  was
faced without at one end by a colonlnade, while the opposite interior end was occupied by the tribune.  A groundplan of such a structure is easily given by a quadrangle
\lhose length is double its breadth, whose interior is surrounded by a series of dots indicating the columns tlhat
divide the side-aisles from the centre, and whose fiont is
taced by anotlher series of dots indicative of the porch.
The centre of this structure was either left open;  or
upoln the entablature tlhat crowned the columns of the two
side-aisles was erected a wall extending up a second story,
pierced in tlhe upper portion for lilght, and giving support
to a flat, panelled ceiling.  The basilica in this form was
easily made to fulfil the purposes of a church.   It soon,
however,  under Christian sentiment,  underwent  these
chlanges.  That the ground-plan migniht present the figure
of a cross, the transept was introduced.  The intersectioii
of thiis with the main part of the building -thle navel)ecamne the centre of the structure.  Just beyond this,
tlhe head of the cross was occupied by the great altar alnd
the chloir.  The nave and the transepts had eachl their
si(de-aisles, and each furnished entrance to the buildin(g.
Tihe altar ancd clloir were flanked on either side by aisles
in continuation of those of the nave, and whlich unitedin
a polygonal apse in the rear.  TI'e hi(gh altar, thus occupyingr one end of the church, impressed such a character
oi it as to lead at lengtlh to placing it toward tlhe east, thtus
leaving the grand entrance toward the west.  Such was
the form the church slowly assumed under the influence
of a growing Cathlolicism.
If we enter a Greek basilica church, as that of Marie
217 
LECTURE XIII.
Magriore, or that of St. Paul, at Rome, we are impressed
by tlhe lhorizontal cllaracter (ot the  structure.  As  we
stand in the nave, a broad, horizontal ceiling lies far
above us; and onl eitlher hand stretchl away  the heavy
entablatures that crown  the rows of receding Grecian
l)illars. WVe also observe thlat tlhe interior of the building
las become very impressive,   more so than the exterior;
an(l that, ill this respect, it differs decidedly firom  Pagan
relig,ious art. Thle arlch may be introduced into such a
structure in various ways. It may be placed between thle
columns under the entablatures, which it thus aids in
sl)Fporting.  In that case, the simple column does not
aff(id sufficient attachment and support to the foot of tile
aich, and is therefore replaced  by a mass of masonrv
faced beneath each arch by a pilaster reachling up to
ald sustaining it, and in front by a pilaster extending
up to the entablature.  If this feature is carried thlrough
the structure,  the ceiling, is vaulted  tllrou(ghout, and
tlle windows and doors are round-hlead(led.   Thlus from a
Grecian cornice thlere rises a semicircular ceiling, lifted
ligil enough  to command independent light above  the
vaulted aisles.
The impllression of such a church, of which St. Peter's
is an example, is quite different from that of a Greek
basilica.  In St. Peter's, the massive  masonry, which,
takinig  tlle place of columns, divides the aisles from tlle
nave, serves to detach them very much firom  tile body
of tlle chllurch, and would (lo so still more, were it not for
tl!e great height and breadth of the included archles.  A
RoInanesque chlurcll has less unity and less singleness of
impression tllan eitller a  Greek (ri  Gotliic one.'Tlie
aisles are  mnore  detached; thle  liorizolltal  line is brokelln,
ols 
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.
vet not abolished.  A  most striking advantage of this
style is the ease and grace with which it receives a (lonme
at the intersection of the nave and transept.  Thle semnicircular archlies readily support a circular entablatuie;
and above  this r;ses the  hemispherical dome.   WVlen
the Latin cross is changed into the Greek cross, and the
central dome is surrounded by minor domes co(vering
the sections of the transept and nave, as in St. Mark's at
Venice, the Romanesque passes into the Byzantine style.
The plain vaulting of the ceiling and of the dome
also fiuriiishes favorite surfaces for decoration, for fresco.
These paintings are often very elaborate, -  more so, it
seems to its, thani their position justifies. A simple arid
bold effect, placed at so dizzy a height, is the easiest, to
say the least, of apprehension by the observer
\We are now close to Gothic architecture in the progress of thlought, tlhough still far from it in the general
iml)ression and character of the work under consideration.  Havingr spanned the windows with a round arch,
it was easy to substitute for it, in the solid wall, a pointed
aiell.  The su(ggestion mighit then arise of carrying this
form of the arch into all parts of the building.  This idea
conmpleted gives us Gothic architecture. The pointed
ar(ch could not easily, fittingly, be crowded down under
the Greek entablature. Its sharp apex afforded no ap 1)i(o)priate support to it; came up as if to pierce it rather
tlhali to sustain it, and was  out of harmony with  it.
Ml(,r)eover, this arch itself, as much higher than the circu tll' iichl, could not find room beneath the architrave, and
intlst be left at liberty to expand itself above it.  Farther:
thlis aicll, as hig.iler, required a corlesp()no(ling heigrlt in the
column on which it rested, and for this reason the more
219 
LECT'URE XIII.
must break thlrough thle sul)erincumbent mass above.   On
tllese grotllids, thle cllief Grecian feature of thle building
disappeared  enltirely.  Nor could thle Grecian  column
advantageously remain with thle new arch.  This sloped
so gelntly, as the foot was approaclled, that it readily
united( itself directly to the pillar beneath, without  thle
dis4ilnct support tlhat had been demanded by thle roundlleaded( archl. Mioreover, as eacll column was the central
sull)port of'ln many aielies, the groils of these passed fieely
illto thle columni, and lay uponI its surface, giving it tlle
al)pearalice ot a cluster of smaller columns  compactly
wi'oughlit ilito a largeri one.   This pillar thus ceased to be
Grecian in form, and had no occasion for tlhe Grecian
cal)ital. It either had no capital, or one peculiar to it.
The whole expression of the building is now chlanged.
All its lines are vertical, and terminate with a slight
curve upward.   The  unity  of the structure is much
greater thain before.   The clustered  columni  takes  tlhe
place of a mass of  masonlry, and gives thle minimum  support possible.  The  lheigllt of the chulrch is relatively
greater than it could be under the former style.   Not
onlv is thie sharp) arch highier in itself, and in its column,
than tlhe round arch, but its lateral thrust is much less
and there is, therefore, no mechanical difficulty in giving(
tlhese upward tendencies full development. In a structure stone thiroughout, the lateral pressure is, in connection with the archl, the most serious difficulty to be met.
Thle Romans, indeed, used such excellent cement,  al(ld
loaded their walls ald archles so heavily, as seen in tlle
Batlis of Caracalla, as almost to destroy thle character
of thle arch as a lmechanical  device.  MIany of' these
ar(clies,were as independent and self-supporting as if they
2.O0 
WALLS.
llqd been  cut out of solid  rock.  When  larg(re sp,es
were to be spanned ill a li(ghter way, and at great lleilght,
the thrust of the arch was a most formidable obstacle,
as shown by the many cracked and seamed walls visible
in less fortunate structures.  The Gothic arch was peculiarly adapted to meet this difficulty, and that, too, in
connection, as we have seen, with great height. Suppose
that a wall a hundred feet high is to be made  the foot
of an arch, reaching, with a span of sixty feet, a corresponding wall.  If we were striviing simply to answer
the inquiry, How shall this wall be so strengrthened( as to
resist the lateral pressure put upon it? this method would
be easily hit upon: Build a second wall thlirty-five feet
in the rear, parallel with the first, and half its hleight.
Unite these, at intervals of thirty feet, with cross-walls,
passing through the outer and lower wall, and appeaiing
externally as buttresses, and  rising on  the inner and
higaher wall as supports to the distance of seventy-five
feet.  Let the buttresses of the lower wall be crowned
with pinnacles, and, firom a point near the base of these,
let flying sulpports or buttresses, in the form of a slight
arch, whose ends rest at unequal heights, pass up to the
inner wall, reaching it somewhat above the middle of
that portion, twenty-five feet in breadth, which remains
unsupported.   Is it not evident  that our inner  wall
can now  receive with ease and safety a severe lateral
pressure?   And  this is the construction of a Gothic
church, with the unimportant difference, that the lhigher
wall and connecting walls are pierced within and beneath
bv arheles, aind supported by columns, thus making  way
for the passage of the aisle, and putting it in connection
with the nave. If we have, as in the Milan Cathedral,
221 
LEClTUPFE XrlI.
two aisles on eithler side, instead of one, then we lhave
three supporting, walls, instead of two.
Thle Gotllic catl)edral thlus shows a perfect adaptation
of all its external members and ornaments to architectural purposes: they all perform some service, and sprili
from some mechanical ground or occasion.  Such a l)uil(ding is as strikiniig without as within: the exterior and illterior vie witll each other in power and beauty. The variety
of parts and relations is very great in both. Were it
not for the perfect unity of the structure, the eye would
be lost and bewildered in the multiplicity of members.
Yet the ninety-eight pinnacles of the Milan Cathedral, by
the uniformity and simplicity of their mechanical arrangement and functions, escape all confusion, and add, in a
simple way, their wonderful -variety to the single and
grand structure.
The Greek temple, as the Parthenon, and the Gothic
cathedral, as that of Cologne, stand at the two extremes
of the art: the one has the simplicity and repose of
strength; the other the variety, manifold resources, and
startliing execution of tile most intense aspiration.   The
mind is borne upward till lost in the marvellous skill of
the work and the dizziness of' the heights attained.  At
each retreat, the buttress still stretches up; once at its
summit, the taper pinnacle crowns it, and this stands out
against the background( of the still climbing roof studded
withl hiolher pinnacles; while above all, towers one or
snore spires, holding to the eye a swimming, uncertain
]l(itlit against the floating clouds beyond.   Aspiration,
solendi(l a(lhievemrnent, are stamped on every feature of
si('ll aii edifice, and can scarcely go farther.  Colog(ne
Cathedial, if on(ce finished, would be a marvel of another
kind, nowise second to the Parthenon.
222 
CATHEDRALS.
Thle power of Gothic architecture is also shown in tile
manner in which it rejects ornament beyond its ownl
structural features.   Within, the  vaulted and  groined
ceiling is sufficient unto itself, and offers no spaces for
)p:tinting.  Tile decorations of color find their seat in the
stained glass of the windlows; and the gorgeous effect
wl!ich these produce leaves the architecture intact.   In
some  cases, the exterior has  been  prodigally adorned
witll sculpture.  Of this the Catlledral of Milan is the
most marked illustration.  Its statues are numbered by
thousands.  In their prodigality and inaccessibility, they
show a false subordination of a higlher to a lower art, and
a vulgar effort to impress by quantity.  Moreover, the
buildiing owes very little to them.  Robbed of them all,
it would still retain its chlief power.
One feature of the PliRomanesque style, and that, too,
the finest, - the dome,- finds no place in the Gothic
church.  A  vaulted chamber or lantern sometimes takes
its position; with no considerable effect, however.  As
tile intersection of the transept and( nave is not the fitting
position for the leading spire, even this feeble'substitute
cannot often  be  introduced.  A  heavy tower  at  this
point unduly burdens, rides, the building, is unserviceable as a bell-tower, and adorns a portion of the edifice
already sufficiently interesting.   The tower o0 towers at
the west end, on the other hand, subserve a mechanical
purpose in closing and firmly uniting the walls, readily
llol(l the bells, give balance to the structure  by adding
interest to an otherwise remote and unsuistained portion,
iand furnishi that beautifutl outline wlliclh belongs to a spire
stal'ting  in(el)endently from  the  veryv glound.   Tlhe
G(otllic chuic(It excludes  the domes  or should  do  so,
by virtue( of the incongruity of the pointed arch with its
223
i 
LECTU, lE, XIII.
circular outlines. The Romanesque style belongs more
espe(ially to Italy; the Gothic to Northern Italy, to
France and the Rhine, and to England.
Styles of architecture may be said to differ in the
maniner inl which they bri(ldge or cover their open spaces,
that from side-wall to side-wall, that from column to colutnn, those of the door and the window.   The Grecian
style does this by a horizontal line or surface; the Gothic
by a pointed curve; other styles do it by intermediate
and mingled forms.  In some more modern structures,
one form, the semicircular arch, has been  singled out,
divested of all other features of style, and made the initial idea of the entire building. The result is more peculiar and interesting than that reached by any of the mixed
methods.  This style may be called round-headed Gothic,
and as a pure, complete style is modern.
In domestic architecture, the Swiss seem to have
achieved as distinct a style as any European nation.
The Swiss chalet, in its artistic forms, is a cosey, modest,
attractive house, and bespeaks cheerful snugness and domestic comfort. It is, doubtless, connected in expression
with the moderate circumstances and generally-developed(
character of the inhabitants of most of the cantons. The
Norman villa is also an edifice of a decided, though a
much more aristocratic character.  Its  high step-gables,
round tower, and algeles fortified with circular pinnacles,
present a bold and varied outline, and unite themselves
to large dimensions. The French or Mansard roof is
anothler national feature of architecture.  Aside from
these forms, there is little interesting or peculiar in the
domestic architecture of Europe.  Brick, with varying
forms and color, appears in some fine buildings; for instance, the City Hall at Berlin.
224 
LECTURE XIV.
SCULPTURE.-VALUE OF THE TRUTH PRESENTED.-CHOICE
OF SUBJECTS. -HISTORIC ART. -RANGE OF SCULPTURE.
-REPOSE MATERIAL.- FORM. -PURE FORM.
IN sculpture we reach the representative arts.  These
do not subserve a physical, but a spiritual end. No
demand of mere utility is met by the reproduction of
natural objects,- by the statue or the painting.  All
the physical exigencies of life lhave reference to facts,
and not to their reflections, however beautiful. These
arts address themselves to the mind, and their value
lies in the sentiments which they communicate. Great
truths cannot be too laboriously or assiduously uttered.
The more lasting, impressive, and perfect the form
which they assume, the better; for they are the landmarks of all generations, the beacons which make the
pathless sea,-  whereon all crafts freighted with nations,
the rich argosy, the warlike trireme, the steamship and
the bark canoe, sailing tip from the mysterious horizon
of the past, press onward, - as safe as the rutted road.
As beauty lies in the manier an independent end is
reached, the truth which representative art brings forward must itself be both obvious and importanit.  If
obscurely presented, it has but little hold on the intellect, and less upon the heart.  If unimportant, it cannot
justify the labor expended  or the attention  invited.
This is true of paintilig, and, in a yet higher degree, of
10*
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LECTURE XIV.
sctlpture.  A good pailiting involves great labor, and
caii present but one scene.  A poemll witl relative ease
presents many scenes.  Thle first, therefore, as more
laborious in its methods and limited in the range of its
results, can only appropriately employ itself on the more
potelt and pregnant passages of life.   Thus, though
uttering olne thing and delivering one message, the
good painting never falls back among unfortunate and
pretelntious, or suffers itself to be overlooked  amoig
iieglected, commonplaces.  This fate it can only escape
by working up powerfully important sentiment.  The
more laboriously a trite truth is presented  the more
intolerable is it.  The familiar seeks a familiar, rapid,
and transient utterance; tle weighty alone  can come
forward to occupy grave moments, to invite our deliberate and repeated contemplation.  The painting is not
wiped out, is iiot modified, but, year by year, must rest
its claim to attention, to existence, on its first, its only,
its intrinsie truth.  This is a severe test, excluding the
trivial not less than the false.  What art strives to make
permainent she must first be sure is valuable.   If our
taste is so blind and unfortunate as to attach value to
anythling in which the mind and heart have no portion,
it robs us of our olly relief, destructioni, and surrounds
us forever with weak and worn-out products, tlle fatal
fecundity of ain unripe fancy; this, too, in the very
teeth of Nature, who is ever changing her products, who
paints only to destroy and repaint, whlo suffers the most
brilliant sunset to fade into darkness, and is ever returning to an azure sky, that she may begin again ller
cloud-work, who sends the besom  of wilnter to brutsll
clean her calvas, and who each day retouclies her previous labors.  Even  the most powerful  utterances of
II
I
I
226
II
i 
MERIT.
truth in men and actions are not long continued, but
are ever arising under some new form with a new shlading of circumstances and new conditions of character.
Great men and great events are not repeated, are not
prints struck from the same plate, and little events in
their constant flux make up the shifting stream of time.
In a yet higher degree is this strict limitation to empliatic truthls suitable to sculpture.  Demanding  even
more time than painting to realize its products, having much less variety of truth intrusted to it, a most
costly and chaste art, it can only do a valuable work
when animated with a high sense of the office to which
it is callod, of the nature of the work which is worthy
of it. We can do without statues, but what shall we do
with feeble and indecent ones? This is a dilemma from
which there is no relief without either a cruel waste of
labor or of taste or of morals.   Garments, furniture,
houses, wear out, and the mistakes of fancy cease to
torture us and give place to others; but an unfortunate
statue, alas! can stand in its speechless iiothingness,
a pitiable mute forever, too much of man in it to be
broken, too little of man in it to be enthroned as a
power in any lhuman heart. It can only linger on in
dingy, dusty existence, waiting the charity of accident,
durability being, in the sad catalogue of its qualities,
the most sad.
The time which the execution of a statue requires,
the attention whielh it claims, the limited scope of the
truth which it presents, and its durability, all demalnd
that it should perpetuate only the higher, nobler, and
more profound sentiments of our nature, that it should
be well aware that truth, great truth, and only truth,
is committed to it, that it is the vault of our treasures,
10
'I-) 2 7
I
i 
LECTURE XIV
the casket of our jewels.  What we are not willing to
let die, we seal within stone lips, too full of their message not to utter it, too full of their message to utter it
all, - sphinx-lips that speak to the light.
The principle which has been ternmed the dignity of
beauty here exerts a most important influence.
(a.) Between  physical  and spiritual qualities, the
ripeness of organic structure and character, the latter
only is worthy of the chisel.  The embalmed body, in
spite of Egyptian myrrhs, becomes a mummy.   As,
however, the soul finds most perfect expression in a
perfect body, it is the plhysical as transfigured by the
spiritual which is the true theme of sculpture.   Nude
statuary throws the whole weilght of its peculiar effect
into thie balance of our baser nature, and thus wars
with the true end of hi,gh art.
(b.) Facts, as contrasted with ideas, have a peculiar
claim on the sculptor. History, as compared with myths
and vagaries of a credulous or a classical fancy, has a
superior hold upon truth, and thus upon art.
(1.) Such work at once renders an adequate reason
why it is, by defining its utility and the office which it
subserves.  Virtue is honored, the memory and power
of great deeds kept alive, and the echo of past achievement made clear and ringing in the present.  This is
for the world to show itself gratefuil, and still more wise,
treasuring up the moral power of the past as the woiking force of the present. Commemorative statues have
a mlost obvious and just end wholly aside from beauty,
and thus that basis in which true beauty can inhere.
(2.) These products of art have also correspondingly
more of expression.  There is a history known to all
back oif them, and this history consolidated in character
228
i
I
I 
HISTORIC ART.
comes forth in them. Here is common ground for the
artist and for the critic or recipient of art. The one
must know the time and the man, and rightly embody
these, while the other may also have the interpreting
knowledge with which to reach all vhat the artist
thought and felt. Every face gathers meaning and
expression by our knowledge of the man, and the true
key of the statue are the historic events which gave rise
to it and which it utters. In proportion as these are
not merely the private experience of an individual, but
great facts for the world, will the resulting work have
interest and power. It thus stands as on a triumphal
column, marking epochs in the mnarch of man.  So, too,
the gratitude and loyalty to virtue, which these most
apt and faithful reniemnbranlcers indicate, will heighten
their expression.
(3.) The very limitation under which such art must
work out its conception should rather be regarded as an
advantage tlhai a disadvantage.   History, in preserving
the general cast of features which belonged to her favored actors, gives a valuable law and restraint to the
work of reproduction.  To infuse the true, the requisite
character into these, then, becomes the problem, and
strong art will rejoice in it.  This is an incarnatioil, the
enslriliing of a divine spirit in veritable flesh.  G,ood
historic work stands rooted in facts, and will be kept
fresh and forceful as long as the memory of man loves
to linger on the records of the race.
(c.) In imaginative  work, single virtues have  an
advantage  over more  general and  inclusive  collceptioiis.   X  single virtue gives more  distinctness and
point to character, secures a more free and iiidependent variety, and saves the product from vague gener
229
. I 
LECTURE XIV.
alization.  There is here, also, a key to the work,that by which the artist may be understood, that by
which he may  be judged:  we  seek for a powerfill
grouping of the visible symbols of a single predominant
emnotionl. Beauty here becomes a tribute to virtue.
Virtue is seen working itself out in beauty.
Of the same nature are the personifications of distilct and characteristic portions of time, of the morning or evening, of summer or spring, of youth or age.
These phases of existence may be made personal in
their striking features, and be gathered up ill a beautiful symbol. Here are found some of tile most signal
achievements of sculpture.
It may be said that a good statue is its own chart,
and that it is a sad caricature which needs the interpretation of a label.  While this is in part true, we can,
nevertheless, understand and enjoy the artist only as he
travels in a distinct and decided way toward a definite
object, through ground the habitat of humanl feeling.
The quicker and more thoroughly we find out what he
is at, the better; the more distinct, positive, and appreiiensi' -   the end to be realized, the better.  The mind
of the artist is strung to an effort, and we know nothing
till we know the object of that effort. Its aim cannot
be some great and beautiful effect, but must be a particular expression, a definite beauty. However we, as
spectators, arrive at the end, it must first be reached
before the work is understood or wisely eniijoyed.
Sculpture, from the costliness of the art, is bound to
ciloose the nobler themes.  It will find these in mall.
Manl is its chief, well-nigh its exclusive subject.  This
also arises from the only symbol at its disposal, - form.
The vegetable form cannot meet the mechanical condi
230 
RANGE OF SCULPTURE.
tions of sculpture, cannot sustain itself in stone, and is
too little expressive to become an object of this art.
Animal life is of so feeble a character, is so little oil the
surface, is so overlaid with shell and hair and hide, as
to make no considerable figure in sculpture, aside from
immediate connection with mail.
Oil the other hand, the smooth uncovered skin of
mail, undtulatory and minutely expressive, with the soul
oil the surface, makes him  a fit subject for all art
dealing only with the single symbol, form.  Even mainl,
however, must be dealt with silgly or il simple limited
relations, as in the equestrian statle.  From  this restricted range of the art there are several resulits.
(a.) Vice, though under  the form  of retribution,
cannot well become  a subject for the chisel.  Such
figures need to be explained and overborne in their
effect by the presence and triumph of virtue.  They are
only acceptable as features in a somewhat complex
whole, and such a group sculpture cannot render.  I
know  not how a Laocoon writhing in the toils of a
serpent is to be called beautiful.  Such a use of words
must at least demand a transfer of sympathy firom the
man to the snake.  Human agony is il itself considered
terrible, not beautiful.   The mind  cannot rest with
pleasure on a scene of agony, however powerfutlly rendered.  We will not say that the only thing to be reiidered is beauty,- but tl-hat this torture of the heart is
not beauty.
(b'.) Virtue must present itself in the form of repose,
trenched in native strength rather than ill violent action.
Sucel action requires again explanation.  A solid stoile
statue frowninig oil all imaginary enemny seems halinted
with some ghost of guilt and danger which will not
231
i 
LECTURE XIV.
down.  That which is to be perpetual and alone should
be peaceful. The imagination will hardly make the
figures to which the passion of a statue responds so
stand out in real existence as to render pleasing the
effect.   If an angry general, rebuking his retreating
soldiers, were left as the only figure in a painting, we
should hardly retain it long scowling illtO vacancy, but
put even second rate art to service to reclaim for it a
few rtmaways. The human face, ill the armed or trustful
repose of virtuous strength, is the citadel of sculpture.
(c.) Here also we mark a further distinction between
the carvilig of the architect and the cutting of the sculptor.   Every form of life sustained by the solid stone
beneath is open to the one, while man is the leading,
if not the only theme of the other. Even iln bas-relief,
sculpture still shows its adhesion to high truth,to man.
Arclhitecture also often symbolizes and distorts its work.
It is not content with, nor does it aim at, the truthful,
but intensifies and  makes glaring the prominent expression, striving to throw into the deadness of the
brute something of the passion of the man. Sculpture,
on the other hand, is satisfied with the fuluess of the
truth committed to it, and aims at that alone.
There is a spirit in man, and the inspiration of the
Almighty givethl them understanding. This is the startilg and returning point of sculpture, the basis and substance of all it has to say. Within this circle of human
powers it works, nor finds itself straitened.  Its material and means are as simple and restricted as its end.
Pure, spotless marble is its chosen, its almost exclusive
material.   Bronze in rougher and more exposed work
is the only important exception, and here the perfection
of the art proportionately suffers.  Bold and striking,
232
I
i 
MATERIAL.
rather than exquisite and finished, the bronze statue
looks down upon you from a height, and stands in
the cold sleet without moving sympathy.
The single symbol of expression il sculpture is form,
and this fact shows how thloroughly this is the basis of
every other symbol.  Color, shade, and motion are all
dependent upoln it, while it is independent of each.
Form puts us in direct connection with thought, is the
explicit and immediate utterance of thoulit.  Where,
and in what language call so full a chapter be written,
so deep a discovery of emnotioii be made, as in the features of a statue which your hand.mighlt hide?  The
spring of life from which the poet is always drawing
here comes welliiig up to the surface.  The passions,
desires, hopes, with which the toingue is ever employed
here lie in silent, constant, condensed utterance, the
impress of mind on matter, the great marvel of the
invisible wrought into thie visible, working out its every
power in appreciable form.
Motion, through the suggestion of attitude, may be
thloughlt to be a subsidiary symb)ol of sculpture. This
inl a slight degree it is. But the statue usually existing
alone, and therefore relatively in repose, motion becomes a less sigificant adjunct than in painting, and
canll hardly be regarded as a distinct symbol.
Nothing in art equals the purity, the singleness, the
chastity of sculpture,-  human  emotion  in colorless
marble.  The statue may at first seem cold and clieerless in its tranquil pallor, and yet it cannot depart from
this, its high thronie of pure form, without loss.  The
tinged marble may look more like flesh, may, like waxwork, have more of resemblance, but, in stooping to
secure this, it has lost the simiple.dignrity of its first
mnessage.
283
II 
LECTURE XIV.
I know few more significant facts in art than thile
growth upon the heart of the colorless statue, and the
feeling akin to sacrilege which is occasioned by any,
even the most perfect tincture.  Art has by instinct
almost uniformly rejected any such effort, and, though
not always knowing lwhy, has felt the ground already
possessed to be higher.
(a.) It illustrates what has been said of resemblance
as not constituting the aimn of art. It is here not even
concurrent with art, and we gain it with a decided loss
of power. With each stroke of color we seemi to descend from pure and transcendental truth toward commonplace fact.
(b.) It is also anl instance of governed and restrained
emotion. We like to see the sculptor accept and cling
to the stern but natural law of his art, to reject that
which is extrinsic, which is of the nature of ornament,
and to be content with the noble simplicity of truth.
We are reluctant to see a purity so marked mingle
with the common crowd of colored things, overlook its
own distinct and individual nature, and strive to lose
itself in the generic type.  As the mind gains in culture,
it eagerly accepts this new restrainlt, and loves the statue
all the more because it is by so much less than the
painting. It wishes to see it so great in its own most
grand prerogative as not to covet color.
(c.) There is here an illustrationi of the desire that
every material should adhere to its own nature. Marble is not a good canvas, and in so using it we hide
a most adequate, beautiful, and native surface with oine
wholly alien.
(d.) The mind's delight in distinction and analysis is
shown in the statue.  We  like to see what is due to
234
I 
PURE FORM.v
form anatomized out from every other symbol of expression, -to have the power of this single symbol revealed. All that compounds the impression and returns
it to the common channel takes from it the keen relish
of an analytic and intelligent pleasure.
(e.) Undoubtedly the power of association is here
also shown.  The purity of white lends a certain chlastity and vigor to the emotions which widely stnder them
from those of amorous flesh.  A sacred innocence veils
the work, making it to the heart more holy.
These considerations together give to sculpture a
more delicate, refined, and siubtile character than belongs
to any other art, and make the statue the chaste repose
of virtue, - the calm strength of a pure spirit. From
this its high character statuary should all the more be
subject to the law of utility, and not degenerate into
simple and idle. ornament. Let the end of influence,
something to be uttered, something to be lhonored, some
truth againi to be restored to the lighlt, show how and
why and where it shall be present.  This neglected, and
the most pertinent and immediate of all inquiries is
overlooked, and statues are more aimless than the flocking clouds speeding each to its ministration.
How immortal is that which is most precious in man!
The earnest thought brooding into symmetrical, ideal
loveliness the forces of the human soul, the cunning
hand waking from its repose in the virgin marble a
pure, permanent semblance, together enthrone this solemn, silent life on its stone pedestal,- an angelic voice,
audible in all time to all hlearts.
285
i 
LECTURE XV.
PAINTING. - TRUTH. - VIRTUE. - DIGNITY. - MANNER OF TREAT
MENT. - THEMES. - MAN.- NATURE. - SYMBOLS. - COLOR
LIGHT, MOTION. - POWERS REQUISITE IN PAINTERS.
PAINTING has always been one of thie most widely
cultivated and generally influential of the fine alts.
It incltudes a greater variety of subjects than any art
save poetry, and is more precise and full in its presentations than even poetry.  The visible is thie great field of
beauty. It is thought realized, and not abstract relations, that gives rise to this sentiment'.  But the visible
world is throughout open to pailnting.  All that the eye
sees and the imagination constructs the painter may
present. The whole sweep of facts and of ideals - the
growth of facts - lies before him. The accurate, literal,
and fixed rendering to which the painting is bound may
sometimes limit it, but is also its power. Though the
angelic and supernatural enter with more reluctance
and danger the sphere of visible art than the field of the
poetic imagination, less distinct and definite in its sliggestioni, the real and the ideal, its fullfilment, rejoice in
this perfect presentation which makes of themin a fill
and visible fact.  The power of painting is due not less
to the precision than to the variety of its truths.
As paintinig is solely a representative art, either directly reproducing facts, or the laws and forces of nature
presented in objects wbolly akin to facts, truth becomes
Il
I;
I, 
TRUTH.
,ost important among its characteristics. To understand the mechanical, vital, and rational forces at work
in nature, their distinct methods, and the variety of
their individual products, is the imperative preparation
for representative art.  Correctness is the first element
of excellence.   That which is falsely done is badly
done, though our ignorance may for a time disguise
the failure.  The painter wl-ho knows not the principles
which give value and order to natutre's action, and does
not most carefully mark these as the very substance and
power of all his work, stands in alliance with no fact.
no real existence, and can only mislead the judgment
and pervert the taste.  His power lies in the fulness
of the truth reproduced under his brush.   Though
he may neglect particular facts, hle cannot neglect the
laws which are in all facts, - in the facts of the painting
as strongly and visibly as in those of nature. Nature
rules in good art with the same absolute and perfect
sway which  she exercises over things.   This is the
truthfulness and tile value of representative art, that
it works under a keen, accurate apprehension of the
nature and method of actual forces. Ignorance is the
destruction of painting; and knowledge, copious and
careful, its prerequisite.  It must have science, experience, observation, that it may have beauty. Thus
only can it reach its object, - the powerful presentation
under their visible symbols of the healthy action of
natural, of physical and spiritual forces.
As there is great variety in the facts which the world
presents, and as some of these indicate the pleasurable
and right action of the forces concerned, and others
the reverse, the painter must understand that which
is just in expression, and elaborate the successes and
23 i'
iI
I 
I,l CTURLE XV.
inot the failures, the virtues and not the vices, of natitre; otherwise his art, no longer a fine art, shares
the decay and debauch of evil, and works downward
as readily as upward. Art in the service of indiscriminate passion, like the honey in the carcass of the
lion, becomes unclean, and through the'tainit of decay
loses its native sweetness.   We need especially to insist
on that which is healthy and right in the theme,. so
often has painting overlooked it. Art must work with
nature, not with her adversaries.   All the forces of
resistance and perversion which spring up in the pathway of vigorous, of virtuous nature work against her
beauty, in working against her wisdom and right.
Though passion, like perverted appetite, may take
pleasure in wrong, the healthy taste more and more
rejects it, and the art which seeks to commend its
product to a high and correct estlietical judgment will
be cautious of moral taint, open as it is to the double
condemnatiot  of weakness and wickedness.
The battle-field, the gladiatorial show, the fox-hunt,
and kindred subjects, in their physical aspects and brutal
accompaniments, are revolting, and no  art that treats
them for what they are in themselves merely can ever
make them beautiful. It can make them less vivid and
real, and therefore less repulsive, but it can never from
their cruel details draw any noble impulse.   If that
which is offensive, merciless, or terrible is to be treated,
it must in some way be overshadowed with moral qualities, be lost in the true lheroismi of the actors, or, at the
least, have the dire and prophetic words of retribution
written on it.  The notion that things displeasing in
themselves are suddenly made beautiful by painting is
false. We may take a certain satisfaction in a clever
288 
DTGNITY.
resemblance, but the painting has no other expression,
no higher power tlhan a kindred scene ill nature. There
must be the same mastery of reason over matter, of
spirit over flesh, ill the one as in the other, before there
is beauty.
The dignity of beauty needs also to be especially elnforced ill painting.  Every fit thing ill nature is not
equally worth the labor of the artist. We are not to
have  a blind mania  for painting which immediately
attaches a new and  strange value to the most insignificant object when reproduced on canvas.  The end
of the art is not simply to paint, but to paint that which
is worth our protracted attentioni, and so to paint it as
that its most valuable and significant thoughts shall be
revealed. The labor of the painter, if less than that of
the sculptor, is yet very conlsideral)le, and is not to be
lost on a meaningless object, or all olject made  meaningless by its treatment.   The tlheme and method  are
to be judged by the nature and amount of the thought
they reveal, and the artist must approve his stewardship in this intellectual aim. Is it worth while? is a
question, when broadly put, as applicable to art as to
ally other investment of labor. Nothilng is more worthless than poor paintitigs, and we shlall be relieved of
many of these, if we  sternly demand thought rather
than form, character rather than color.  He only can
paint who  deeply apl)prehlends and feels visible truth,
and to train pupils tip to this art by classes and selijaries is as impossible as to train them in a kindred
mainler into acceptable poets.  Drawing, and sometimes
pailnting, mnay indeed be used as a discipline of the eye,
lhand, and taste; and so used they may prepare the way
for, but are not in themselves fine art.
2'IO 9 
LECTURE XV.
While some scenes, as more significant and valuable,
are more worthy of art than others, there is au equally
inarked difference in their method of treatment.  One
aritist, invited by that which is casual and accidental,
co,,poutiids his work of trifles and details, rendering the
fact  )efore you only too faithfully in its insignificant
incidents; another in each  transient compound  sees
chlaracter and principle, and bringing these to the surface, imparts breadth and law to what were otherwise
limited and trivial.  Unider the treatment of the one,
the domestic scene is ani ordinary kitclhen, with ordinary
utensils and very ordinary people, living in their poor
way; under that of the other, it is this and much more.
It is a phase of human life, in which the play of humain
feeling, hope, fear, affection, are seen,-  a chapter from
the world's experience thumbed by all our neighbors.
Thle one paints the man when his feelings have sunk
back into his heart; the other, when his life has arisen
to his lips and face. The one paints with commonplace eyes; the other, with the intuitions of the poet.
These he uses for our benefit, and paints the world as
he sees it. His high powers are put to service, and we
are invested with his inspiration. What presents the
most to him he cliooses, anid so represents it that it
bears to us the feeling with which he has freighted it.
Even the familiar we see as we had not before seen it,
for his higher intuitions havelaid it open.
Sucl work, if the mind be normal, has all value, ever
lies within the sphere of the painter, for it vigorously
presents visible truth, - truth which has already shown
its power in stirring and directing the currents of one
heart. There must be present in the artist a quick
perception of the forces and thoughts at work in the
240 
MAN.-N NATURE.
world, of the fears and hopes which make life eventful.
Dulness will render all things dull, a dry detail of
facts; while a nature filled with emotion will diffuse
emotion through all it treats.
The greater truths of the world are for the painter,
as for every artist, locked up in man, and this, not so
much in man idealized beyond the facts of the world,
as exalted and enriched within those facts. Historic virtue, character achieved, heroism reached, are the significant and valuable truths to man, laboring whether
in hope or in despair. The portrait has this license,
that it may give the features, not in the deadness of
a quiescent spirit, but as the seat and instrument of
the best in the mani's life. So would memory enshlrilne
them, so far may love transfigure them. Tihe historic
portrait has this license, that it may utter all that history has before uttered, tracing, under given restrictions, the man as embalmed in the world's heart.
So completely, however, is the full thought contained
in all the works of the world, in tl-lemselves, ill their
inferior and higher adaptations,open to the painter, that
man  oulght to be but one among many themes.   In the
landscape and lower forms of life, if there is less to
move the passions, there is also less to disquiet the
mind, and repose more profound and exclusively pleasurable is experienced in view of the stretch and magnificence of God's  works, than before arlything which
human labor or character presents.  If Nature does not
travel as high, she does not descend  as low as mac,
and preserves, in more pure and unsullied reflection,
the image first committed to lher.  God walks amid the
trees of the garden.   Nature is more ripe in her beauty
than manl; she now wears her coronal, and is foim this
241
I 
LECTURE XV.
point to pass away. Manhood is incipient, a dawn amid
the darkness of storms, a bud under the close, hard
cerements of winter.   Nature, also, in her beauty is
God's grace to man, and runs in advance of his character; the bursting out of undeserved love, and, as
having in it the divine heart and feeling, it ought to
be dear to man. In the range of the visible universe,
painting pursues its object, - the worthy presentation
of worthy feeling.
The symbols of painting are as copious as its subjects.
Form, color, light, and shade are its constant mediums
of expression, while motion, arrested in attitude and
interpreted by the relation of thle figure to surrounding
objects, now lends a vigorous effect. Though the entire
language of the eye is furnished this art, color is preeminent among its symbols. This is the peculiar and
striking characteristic of the painting. Its animation,
its vividness, its power over the eye, and its superior
impression of life, are due to color.
In the right management of this lie its mechanical
difficulties. Pigments, various, well-defined, permanent,
and sensitive, are the first demand of the artist.  Different centuries and countries have been quite unequal
ill their mastery of the best material.  Painting will
greatly increase in worth and dignity as it succeeds in
these mechanical conditions, and its work becomes permanent. Painting wrought upon a wall becomes all
adjunct of architecture, stoops to the fortunes of the
edifice, and loses something of the value which would
belong to it as an independent product.  Through color
is it that the other symbols of expression are reached.
Color is modified by form, and these modifications in
turn become to the eye the indices of form.  The paint
242
f
i 
LIGHT.
ing avails itself of this fact, and, unable to render form
except in outline, gives to the eye its indices. Those
complex judgments which we all unconsciously make
in expanding the testimony of the eye into knowledge
must now be more carefully studied, that the movement
may be reversed, and the painter resolve knowledge,
facts, into the symbols of vision, meagre in what they
are, yet full in what they give.
Every variety of form, in every variety of relation,
secures a new and distinct effect on color, and this
effect the painter gives. Without passing from his own
symbol, he renders in color, through our unconscious
judgments, the complete power of form.
So, too, light and shade are reached solely through
these modifications.  The intensity and position of the
light make an obvious record on the color of every
object, bringing it out in brilliant surfaces or hiding
it in dark shadows; now invitinlg the eye to this side,
and now  to that.   Light, thus the adorner not less
than the revealer of the external world, yet snakes
beauty intensely subservient to instruction.   Objects
are more perfecetly distinguished, each from each, by
a change of color, light working different results on
every different surface. Their agreement is also toldof rock with rock, of tree with tree -  by unchainged
color. Again, the superficial form of each is shown
by a furtlier modification of light productive of further
variety; their relation, each to each, is revealed by
shadows and illumlinated surfaces; and this most coi plex, significant, and wondrous tale is shifted every
moment to record the waning hour.   Thlus, the utn ending and changing beauty of the world is the in evitalle product of that most sensitive element, light,
I'
243 
LECTURE XV.
in the hearty and full discharge of its office as a revealer.  Beauty is ingrained in the fabric of the world.
The  manay-colored coat which  the light weaves  from
its spectrum for the adorning of nature is also the
inevitable  result of a medium  of knowledge  which
could not be perfect without this, its changeable and
compound claracter.
This infinite modification of light- this record of
facts and relations onl light -is the record of the painlting, the record of that superior sense, the eye.   The
basis of all is color.  Throught  this the body testifies
its presence, and on its various-colored surfaces, in
still further shades, the remainder of truthl is written.
It is the art of the painter to write his thouglts, as
God writes, oni the lighlt, and to make  that evaIisling
rceord, drowned in the nighllt, lost inll the flow of time,
as permanent as man.
Aside from facts of liglht, already sufficiently presented, there are certain otlers to be mentioned.
(a.)  The ilntensity of color is much greater in nature
than it cani be in art.  The full sunlight acting upon
color gives it a power  wllich cannot belong to  unilluminated pigmenit.  Inl some scenes, therefore, relative truth alone can be reaclhed. The seneie is graded
to the maximum effect which canll be secutred, and thus
its character, though not its force, is preserved.   Inl
her high power, in her full flood of liglht, floating the
clouds after the spent storm, nature works far above
art.  The fact outstrips the poor ideal, and the ideal
the poorer actual in painit.
(b.) The effects of a landscape are very different as
we look upon it with the lighlt or against the light,
as the shadows  are cast from  us or toward  us.  It
244 
LIGHIIT.
seems much more bald and naked in the first instance
than in the second. The colors are more distinct, soft,
and various when mingled with the shadows than when
in even, unrelieved light.   The difference is akin to
that experienced under a vertical sun as contrasted
with evening light.  All bodies are so uniformly affected by the noontide rays as to make barren and monIotonous  the  most  varied scenery.   The action of
light, as opening into and opening up a landscape,
needs to be carefillly marked. The one it does when
flowing on with the vision; the other, when working
its way among objects from a different or even opposite
point.   The  best effect is reached, not so much by
strength, as by inequality and contrast of light. This,
enhancing color, at once gives greater variety to the
eye, and enables it to judge relations more accurately.
(c.) Light is of much greater importance in landscapes than in single objects.  Single objects, as man,
are revealed with few modifications of light; the landscape is interlaced everywhere with its beams, and a
most difficult and chief consideration becomes the effect
of these on the objects presented. Still more complex
and perplexing is the problem in the case of water.
All various scenery is chiefly what it is through its
power over the light; and as objects become numerous
and of less value in themselves, this additional labor is
thrown upon the artist, that they are to be treated
under a single condition of light.  The unity and tlhe
vigor of the piece must largely depend upon his mastery of this element, giving unity and beauty in nature.
In ally landscape, light, with its invisible attendant,
heat, is the chief worker, the stimulating taskmaster
of all chemical and vital forces.  The vapor, the clouds,
:.:"... I...
245 
LECTURE  XV.
the winds, the plants, all quicken their steps at its
bidding, and it robes these servants of its will in royal
livery.  Light is the prime force of the natural world,
and for the painter not to know this is to know nothing.
In man, art, passing over to the side of the spiritual
and engaged with yet more recondite forces, is in a
measure relieved from these general and physical
truths. Even in a large painting, where man is treated,
we call hardly wish or claim a full, broad, powerful
play of natural forces. One or other of these elements
when united should be strikingly pre-eminent; either
the force of man or the force of nature, not both.
Sufficient has been said of the end and means of
painting to establish the assertion, that broad and careful knowledge as well as just intuitions are requisite
for the painter. Nature must have been long studied
in her symbols, many sketches have been made, the
spirit and  precise form  of her methods  have  beei
caught, before the artist can work with her, or do
aught that she would not blush to own.
This is not less true in the treatment of man than
of that which is lower. There is more that is homely
in man than in any other creature.   This should be
so, for evil has wrought here more than elsewhere.
But there are also here traces of all beauty, and these
must be studied, if we would not have our idealism
degenerate into vapid notions of perfection, if we would
not lose that variety which makes man by himself a
kingdom.  Thought, virtue, appear in the human coiiitenance under limitation, in conflict, and this is the
basis of our interest and sympathy.  We  must study
character,- -where human character alone exists, if we
.    I.....
246 
FIDELITY TO FACTS.
would give that manhood to our men for which only
they have value. Every face has in it that which is
worth the knowing, for it is the record of a spirit under
new conditions, favorable or unfavorable. We are not
to have an effeminate love for physical beauty, but are
rather to content ourselves with stern, hard facts, since
this is the stubborn necessity now laid upon us.  Not
to humble angels, but to exalt men, is our office, and
the office of art, and she must learn how to infuse
the higher into the lower, how to glorify the lower by
the higher, and this can be taught only in the world.
The intellect and heart demanded of the painter
must ever assign him a high rank; and these, when
wrought into his productions, impart to them commanding moral power.  Since this art is without physical uses, it must be exclusively, and all the more
severely, judged onil its intellectual merits. That which
claims to be gold must meet the tests of gold.
The profound questions of mind and matter, of the
condition and destiny of man, which wait on all for
solution, wait also on the painter. The insight he shall
have into these problems of our being, the answers
which he shall render, whether hopeful, fearful, or despairing, will give character to lhis work, and lead him
to find in nature and mai the forces of evil, the gloomy
portents of defeat; or remedial agencies, the promises
and imagery of victory. Great art will know of tlhe
intellectual and moral struggle in man, will know his
enemies, - ignorance and sin, suffering and death,and will neither fear nor fail to think and speak of these
in its work. It will not draw back firom the naked,
hard, sad facts of life, and, if it be the highest art, will
strike into them some light, as of a dawning day.  All
24T 
LFECTURE  XV.
things will be understood, - the rough, coarse, and
wicked, not less than the gentle, the refilled, and the
virtuous.   Nothing will be vapid, nothing unworthy,
for under every transient form the deeper, broader
relation of objects will be seen.
The painter finds no other limit to the moral and
intellectual character of his work than his own grasp
of topics.
The innumerable paintings gathered in the many galleries of Europe impress one strongly with the necessity
of a high standard in this art.  The majority of these
works have little interest beyond an historical one. They
are oppressive in number: discriminating criticism is
tedious; indiscriminate admiration humiliating. There
is comparatively little in these great collections that is
now worthy of earnest study and sincere commendation.
Value of theme and power of treatment, if insisted on as
tests, at once condemn the larger part of the innumerable products of this art. Modern painting has passed
through all stages of growth in the six centuries just
past; and its first productions are interesting merely as
they show the point of departure. Under the influence
of Byzantine art, its first productions had neither vigor of
form nor force of character, but were a conventional and
languid presentation of men and women.
Under a series of masters, - Cimabue, Giotto, Leonardo
da Vinci, - the human form and face gradually gained
freedom, force, character, till, in the time of Raphael, an
entire mastery had been secured in the department of
bold, vigorous physical expression. Grecian and Roman
sculpture, which leave little to be desired in their coiitrol of the human form, had greatly aided this result.
There remained, however, great deficiencies ill the ele
248 
PAINTINGS.
ments of moral and intellectual expression. Between the
Madonnas of Raphael, even, there is great diversity: most
of them by no means approach the excellence of the Sistine Madonna, the most celebrated of paintings. They
retain something of the feeble, passionless expression, the
doll-like face, that belong to so many of the earlier Madonnas. Natural objects, in the mean time, received very
little attention.   Perspective was but little understood;
and hence the distance and relation of objects are lost.
Christian art was cultivated in common by most of the
cities of Northern Italy, each having its periods of excellence and its great artists.
Later, painting passed into Germany, the Netherlands,
and France. The art of these countries is mainly subsequent to the period of Raphael, who belongs to the earlier
portion of the sixteenth century. The art of Italy was
chiefly religious; that of the Netherlands was largely
domestic, presenting the familiar scenes and objects of
daily life.  Humorous and jovial sentiment entered freely
into it; and it gained more variety, and, in some directions at least, more expression, than that of Italy.   The
criticism often lies against it, however, of choosing unworthy themes.  The fruits of the garden, the market, or the
hunt, often fill the canvas. Landscape-painting receive(d
considerable attention both from Dutch and French artists; yet the great works in this department, thouglot
most of them are of comparatively modern origin, lhave
suffered much from the loss of color.  In(leed, the landscape, in the multiplicity of its details, seems to be affected
more unfavorably by any loss of fireshness and intensity of
finish than are the higher productions whichl- have manl
for their subject.  Some of Tutrner's paintings, the grieat
249 
LECTURE XV.
English painter of landscape, are scarcely intelligible.
Landseer well illustrates in his treatment of animal life
the assertion, that a lower theme, powerfully handled,
yields more than a higher theme handled with less vigor.
His animals have more character than many another artist is able to give to men. The directions in which
modern art has yet much to do lie in the subtle presentation of the great physical agents and effects of the landscape, and of the moral forces of the human soul. Often
as Christ has appeared in art, no Christ has yet been
painted. The moral conditions of the problem have ever
been too great for the artist.
250 
LECTURE XVI.
POETRY. - ITS NATURE. - RHYTHM. - RANGE OF POETRY.   CLASSIFICATION. -HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT. -METHOD
OF TREATMENT. -CHOICE OF SUBJECT.-TRUTH. -SUG   GESTION.
THE most radical distinction between prose and
poetry lies in the aim of each.  The best approved
division of our powers is into intellectual, emotional,
and voluntary.  These several parts of our nature can
each become the primary object of address. Though
not acting independently, any one of the three may be
the chief seat of action, and the effect there produced
the aim of composition. We may wish to act upon the
intellect by adding to its knowledge, or, directing its
process of thought; to reach the emotions, arousing
them to stronger, lnobler, more pleasurable activity; or
to affect the will, binding it to our purpose.   These
ends, distinct in themselves, give rise to equally distinct
forms of composition. Though the first and third are
included under one term, prose, the oration is not less
diverse and peculiar than the poem, while the dissertation, essay, demonstration, narrative, anid kindred forms
addressed to the intellect, constitute a third class.
The interior and essential characteristic of poetry is
that it addresses itself to the emotions, and rests  in
these.  It translates all things into feeling, colors all
things with feeling. 
LECTURE XVL.
Poetry is passion, -the  throb of a sensitive and
aroused nature, emotionl wrought into speechl.  Emotion
here acts singly, lending itself to no ulterior end; burln ing for its own heat, brilliant by its owii light.
Poetry, having clief reference to feelilng, has naturally
allied itself to rhythm, and sought to sustaini and perfect
the flow of the thought by an accurate and measured
corresponldence with the flow of syllables.   Language
thus ceases to be imere arbitrary symbols, conventional
sounds, aggregated  into irregular sentences, and assumes a distinct and peculiar form, in itself a recognizable harmony.  Language thus indicates a direct sympathly with  thlought, and gives  an under  strain of
music to the play of feeling.  It is in entire harmony
with what lhas been said of music that it should thus
in its rudiments add itself to emotional composition,
and everywhere introduce its essential elenment of mneasure into poetry.
As  measure establishes a decided, an independent
movement in the language, as its accents and pauses
recur at stated points, it becomes a leading and inclusive law of form, in good poetry, that the accents and
pauses of the thoughlt correspond with those of the verse.
Each kind of verse having a distinct form, its own flow
of sound, the poet must needs unite the thought to this
form, so h-armoniizing them tlhat the accents and emphasis of the one shall correspond with tlhose of the
otler.  Thus, while the expression preserves its ownI
integrity, and has the grace of a completed rhythm,
the thlou,ght thoroughly adopts it, is as much born into
it as the livinig spirit into its physical organization.
By this play of metre, poetry as opposed to prose
assiumes a definite, a rhythmical, a musical form.  Form,
252 
RHIIYTIIM.
as a recognizable, distinct element, does not enter into
prose, while it is ever present in poetry. This aplpreciable form is secured in English by the stated recurrence
of accent, pauses, and rhymnes. In some kinds of verse
all of these are employed; in others, as blank verse, the
first only. As this arrangement renews itself at fixed
intervals, the limit within which the measure returns
to its starting-poilit is called a verse. This may consist
either of one or several lines.   Accents, pauses, and
rhymes, being capable of a great variety of arrangements, give corresponding varieties of verse.
Mere accent, furnishiiing the most simple and independent rhythm to each line, least of all hampers the
expression, and, as in blank verse, suffers the sentence
to expand itself through succeeding lines, or contract
itself at pleasure.  Here  the  measure,  appreciable,
though not always powerful, in its effect, gives the
utmost freedom to the thought, and keeps pace with
it in minor melody through all its wanderings. When
definite pauses are added to accent, as in hexameter,
these, while increasing the rhythm, proportionately constrain the expression. This must now be so ordered
that the pause shall rest upon the emphatic words, and
shall not separate closely united parts; the whole grammatical structure is thus affected, and the sentences
broken up into members of a given length. If rhyme
is also introduced, the rhyming words, by marking
a return, a completion of the form, also seek a corresponding completion of the thought, and thus lay upon
it the burden of a full cadence. This it also does by
the emphasis which naturally falls on the rhyming syllable. The presence of rhyme still further imposes
upon the verse its own peculiar burden of retiirningr
253
I I
p 
LECTURE XVI.
syllables. On account of these restraints, blank verse
has become the chosen vehicle of higher and bolder and
more independent sentiment, while the other kinds of
verse are fitted for thought which wishes to ally itself
more closely to expression, to secure a more definite
and choice form.
This distinction of verse, though strictly extrinsic,
and not pertaining to the essence of poetry, is yet so
obvious and convenient that it determines language,
and nothing is called poetry which has not assumed one
or other of its forms, and all that possesses the form
carries with it the name. We thus have poetical prose
and prosy poetry.
Poetry is earlier in point of time than prose, and for
this reason among others, that, having a distinct form,
it may be transmitted in the loose vehicle of speech
without change, while prose cannot escape perpetual
modification, having nothing to mark its precise expression. Nor is the burden which poetry imposes less
readily borne in the earlier than in the later stages of
language. The vocabulary of feeling is first and most
rapidly enriched.  Length of syllables, inflection, and
accents are all more heeded while speech is the controlling element, than when a written literature, being
the source of law, language shapes itself more to the
eye than to the ear.
Poetry has the entire range of feeling, and is as diversified, therefore, as the states of the human heart. The
mean, base, and wicked passions are, indeed, no more
presentable in poetry than in life, and yet, as in life,
they weave themselves into the complex fabric, if only
to suffer the scorn and rebuke of virtue. Poetry owes
its entire form to one portion of our nature, and is its
254 
CLASSIFICATION.
perfect counterpart, with this exception, that it represents emotion more utinder its pure and noble than
under its impure and debased forms, -more in its
aspirations and impulses than in its lassitude and weakness. True poetry cannot sink wholly to the level of
life, for, so doing, it wastes its moral and esthlietical
power, and ceases to be a fine art. Poetry is passion,
yet not so much vulgar passion as passion vivified and
transfigured by the remnant of spiritual apprehension
and higher good which ever belongs to the poet.
Poetry. must  receive its principle of classification
from our emotional constitution, and its order of historical development from the development of this portion of our nature.
All emotion has reference to an object, the mind is
affected in view of something, toward something. Emotions may be divided into two classes: sensational and
rational, according to the nature of the objects giving
rise to them, or, more explicitly, according to the avenue through which these enter the mind. The senses,
the organs of external apprehlension, and the reason,
the organ of rational apprehension, are each the inlets
of peculiar qualities, the sources of diverse emotions.
This distinction gives rise to two classes of poetry, -
the sensational and the rational; the one physical in its
objects, the other spiritual; the one giving the play of
emotion in a world of things, the other, in a world of
regulative ideas, intuitive laws. The word sensational
as here used has in it no disparagement, but simply
marks the external, materialistic character of the objects to which the feeling attaches itself, - marks a
poetry which is alive to that which is, rather than to
that which ought to be; which travels through a visible,
255 
LECTURE XVI.
rather than aspires to an invisible, world. These distinct tendencies will show themselves strongly in poetic
production, and mark a fundamental difference, both in
the impulse which gives rise to the poem and the impulse which it can impart.  The highest field of poesy
lies in the emotions when under the action of broad,
weighty, and pregnant principles; ill the superior, the
moral nature, fully aroused by those truths which press
its feelings beyond the present and visible into the
unmeasured and invisible.
Sensational poetry naturally divides itself into two
classes, - that which holds closely to the external object, and that which is more carefill to mark its interior,
its mental effect,-that which in description and narrative gives objects and events, and that which traces
the flow of life, the action of the heart under these.
The one is more physical, rendering things as they are,
the other more intellectual, giving  them  as modified
in the feelings and impulses of individual life.  Aware
of the harshness of the words iii this application, we
shall yet, in the absence of better terms, call these subdivisions sensual and emotional poetry. The division
into sensational and rational marks the avenues through
which the exciting cause, the slu)ject of poetical passioi
enters the mind.  This in the one class is the senses, in
the other and higher class it is the reason.  The words
sensual and emotional have reference to the subjectmatter of the poem, -the one including the external,
the substantial and visible, the other the internal, living
experience amid things and facts.
These distinctions -like the fundamental distinction
between poetry and prose- will not be found to perfectly correspond with those more slighlt divisions which
256 
KINDS OF POETRY.
rest on form, as the song and the sonnet; nor with
those which rest on single aims arbitrarily selected from
allied aims to the neglect of further classification, as
epic and dramatic poetry. While these secondary divisions will surrender a portion of their matter to one,
and a portion to another, of the classes now instituted,
we shall yet find that this reference of poetry to its
distinctive aim, its subject-matter, is more or less recogniized in them.   Epic poetry, as heroic narrative,
presents life under its external, visible forms, in its
achievements and successes, and so far is sensual. Dramatic poetry, representing life in tragedy on tle side
of justice, of retribution and reward, and in comedy, on
the side of accident, of the fitful and mirthful, also
cleaves to the external, incarnating the spiritual, so far
as it attains it, in a sensible, material iorm. Narrative,
descriptive, and pastoral poetry evidently belong to the
visible, sensual world.
Lyric poetry, on the other hand, the ode, the sonnet,
is more reflective, marks the passion, the internal state,
embodies a sympathy, a desire, a hope, and is thus
emotional. So, too, the autobiographic poem and satire,
didactic and philosophic poetry, so far as these have
a right to exist, mark the action of the feelings on
external objects, and belong to emotional poetry.
The last class, which more directly contemplates the
higher intuitions of truth and right, and more immediately feels their impulse, also includes much that is
lyrical, -songs of freedom, of labor, of worship.  The
impassioned claims of the heart for the higher forms
of good, its rebukes of wrong, its sense of offended
justice and hastening retribution, its calm trust in
ultimate issues, its aspirations, its adorations, are all
257 
LECTURE XVI.
emotions, arising strictly under its spiritual nature, and
looking, not to the visible, but the invisible for satisfaction. The reason of man, moving amid great principles, will, from time to time, lift the heart of man
above that which is agreeable, pleasing, hopeffil, up to
that which is purely and transcendently rational, truthful, rightful.
The historic development of poetry is for the most
part in the order of the classification now given. The
external and material, ill its most material form, first
occupy the passiolns, and we have the romance and the
ballads of the middle ages, or the stricter epic of the
early Grecian culture.  Life in its retributive and discip)liary character is later seen, and thus later furnishes
the matter of the drama,-iin form belonging to the
sensational; in spirit, often a prophecy of the purely
rational.   The ripening reflective powers, no longer
yielding all to the active impulses, give lyrics, those
voices of the interior life, uttering what one mind has
thought and heart felt amid the din of action.   The
inner life must strongly have asserted itself as against
the outer life, have been able to affirm the prior worth
of its own experience, and have gathered up, in the rest
and silence of reflection, the evanescent phenomena of
the spirit, before the lyre will be strung for their utterance. Culture must have made very considerable progress before poetry will pass from the visible to the
invisible, from the material to the intellectual.   Yet
more must there be of trainilng, before our findamental
intuitions, deep principles of order, shall so govern our
thinking as to call forth the profoundest, holiest feelings, as to make the broad, the moral relations of action
the theme of our most impassioned verse. In times of
258 
METHOD OF TREATMENT.
great conflict oily, when men are searching for their
rights, when religious natures are wrapped in a holy
enthusiasm for fullest, highest truth, or in the inUpiration of devotion, will the strength of spiritual impulses
show itself in poetry.
Each of the several classes now enumerated admits
of very diverse methods of treatment.   The sensual
may stand out grossly on the sensual side, description
may be mere description, narration mere narration,
giving all things in their visible and material aspects;
or, with more quick apprehension and susceptible feeling, the poet may especialIy single out those features
which affect the heart, and everywhere reach the more
significant and expressive poinlts of things and actions.
The drama may sinik, loathsome and lost, in the mere
filth of life, the detail of vice, or with unflagging justice, scourge the criminal, and cleanse away the moral
ichoro  So, too, emotional poetry may vacillate between
philosophy and passion, between dry, acute analysis and
the pulsations of a changeable, susceptible, vigorous life.
It may forget its just fiunction, and become didactic, or,
With a truer apprehension of its mission, it may unveil
without destroying the phenomena of a rich interior
life. Rational poetry also has its range, sinking or
growing in merit. It may be perceptive, coolly cognizant of law, the sharp censor of guilt, or render the
emotions of a profoundly moral and religious nature
in view of great rights and great wrongs, -of purity
and impurity, of immutable truth and blind, mutable
passion.
Each department is equally open to great poetry, and
the great poetry of each department is most akin in its
impulses, in its hold of the invisible and vital.
2,'9
o 
LECTURE XVI.
Our remaining thoughts we can best present as distinct considerations in the  office  and  character of
poetry.
(a.) Poetry especially shows its inclination upward
or downward, its power or want of power, in its
choice of subjects.  It canhot accept and apply itself
to the tasks of history and philosophy without ceasing
to be poetry. Indeed, such a choice of themes indicates
that the poetical spirit does not exist, that a vain effort
is being made to preserve a form whose life has escaped.
The past is generally supposed to have certain advantages over the present as the field of passion and
imagination. Facts obscured by time, less apparent in
their precise outline and features, yield more freely
than passing events to the conception, readily receiving
shape under the poetic imagination.
These and kindred considerations are often urged
against the present, practical, and commonplace, as
rendering it of necessity unpoetical. These conclusions
are, we apprehend, pushed too far, and that the present
offers some peculiar advantages to poetry, and has some
peculiar claims upon it. Different ages are not so much
poetical or unpoetical in their external conditions, in
their transient circumstances, as in their intellectual
character, their emotional life.- When poetical power
is present, it will in every age find abundant objects on
which to exercise itself, while, without it, every phase
of life will be wearisome monotony.
Chivalry in itself was oftener a brutal, passionate, and
loathsome commonplace than either the magnanimity
of benevolent virtues or the exaltation of manly cour age.  It is what it is to us largely through the trans forming, transfiguring power of the poet.  A cruel fact
260
ii
1, 
THE PRESENT.
has become a brilliant fiction. Poetry complains that
she is not able, that she is not at liberty with her high
fancies, so to transmute and glorify the present. 01)O
the (.ther hand, we would ratler say that this is her
precise office, her highest mission, and that the subduinlg feeling, the earnest experience which should ever
be the leading characteristic of poetry will readily do
this very thing.
The poet, that he may be eminent, must first be preeminent in native forces. His feelings cannot go groping in blind passion, but must have the sharp vision of
a quick intellect, and rational intuitions.  His thoughts
cannot remain inflexible crystals, but, dissolved in feeling, must be ready to recrystallize around every new
nucleus given to them.  Without profound passion and
deep experience, the poet has no poetry, and can render
none that does not in barren description cling to the
surface.  With this inner under-current of an aroused
and sensitive life, the present, far from  being a dull
monotony, will be the gathered strength, the treasured
value of the past, thie pregnalit transitional moment in
which all forces, concurrent and conflicting, are writhing and wrestling to shape a yet unirendelred future.
The present, as it is the home of life, of effort, of
power, is the true home of passion.  Thither the battle field and the tocsin of war are transferred, all else is
deserted, -is death. On these plains the dusty armies
of men, wasted and torni by the conflict of centuries, at
length debouch.  Here, where work is to be done, vie tories gained and lost, where alone are the wails of
woe and the shouts of joy, the poet should not, the
true poet will not, complain of the want of impulse and
feeling.
1I*
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I 
LECTURE XVI.
Oily by this apprehension of the present, this pulsation of his life with the life of the race, by which the
throes of every new birth go rending through him, can
the poet become a worker, a prophet, a bard, whose
martial songs stir deeper and ring louder tlhanl drum or
fife. How can a poet have inspiration who is ever with
the dead, and this, only that he may cherish their forgotten pomp?  Or, if he have inspiration, why should
hle expend it ill this valley of boiees? Tlhe past restored
will often be but a flimsy fiction or haggard ghost.
If human  life as a reality, a passing and eventfil
reality, has no interest, no value, certainly restored in
dreamy fiction it will have less interest, less value. He
who has not fathomed the current of life which bears
him onward, who has not felt its forces or been whirled
in its eddies, is certainly unable to treat poetically the
themes and objects of the hour; but this is no proof
that these have not in them superior passion and interest.
Pre-eminently are these considerations just in coniiection with all poetry that springs from impulse, and
lends impulse, that feels the action of law and principle.
These are the forces at work in the present, and with
gathered clearness and strength struggling into mastery.
Poetry that arises fiom moral and religious emnotion will
have to do with the present.
The poem has historical value which reflects the life
of its times. Tllis value is lost if each period, weary of
itself, is to seek that whicli is most alien to its owii
spirit, if, no longer rendering itself, its experience of
joy and sadness, it is ever retreating to realms of fancy.
Nothing is more indicative of hopeless and intrinsic
poverty than ennui, a perpetual weariness of the thing
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THE PRESENT.
that we are, that is, - and this, not as wrong, but as
vapid, not as misdirected, but as without direction and
import.  That period does best that best renders itself,
that is full of its own action, inspired by its own success.
Even the epic, with its strict adherence to the external, is less and less able so to handle the past as to
renew it ill the affections of the present. A great epic
will hardly again be written on tihe basis of warlike
exploit, of brute  strength, or military passion.   If
nothing heroic can be found ill a commercial and iutellectual age, then the heroic scarcely remilains to us,
since the physical heroism of former times is passing
more and more from our affections. The epic of a
literary  and  Christian people  must  proceed onl the
notions of that people, trace its conflicts, and mark its
endurance, and honor its successes. If we are destitute
of that nobility of spirit which strives with enthusiasm
and waits with patience, we have fallen below the epic
but if not, if there is yet that in action which canll justify and sustain the passion of poetry, he deserves most
of his age who works this virgin gold of high endeavor
into a coronet, the crown of past success, the lure of
further effort.  Lighlt up the life that is with the virt ue
that is, or ought to be, and bear not forever the inspiration and imagery cf poetry, as pure oil pressed from the
best life of the present, back to the censor of an old,
worn-out hero-worshlip.   This claim  of the present
upon poetry is more and more recognized, and will be
recognized by all whlose( ears catch the tread of events,
who know that life flows no more shallow, no more
muddy, no less sublimely, than ill times of yore, whenl
eddying on through strife of battle.
(b.) Not less important than the theme in poetry is its
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LECTURE XVI.
method of treatment. There are few subjects which
have not in them a vein of poetry, since there aile few
themes which do not at some point touch the heart.
On the other hand, there is no subject so exclusively, so
transcendently passionate, as not to be capable of becoming a dry skeleton under anatomical treatment. It
is the peculiar function of the poetical mind to apprehend all things on their living, emotional side, and so
apprehended there is poetry in them all. The quick
intuition and aroused heart do not fail, because they put
their possessor ill connection with the sensitive and the
vital  deeply conscious of every pulsation in the world's
life, he is able to transmit it. With an extended and
delicate surface of auditory and visual reception, no
movement escapes him, the deep under-current or the
surface ripple. Armed as witlh a stethoscope, his ear is
pressed close to the throbbing breast of man; armed as
with optic glass, his sharp eye wanders far and near,
searching the play of mighty and minute forces. It is
this superior perceptive power, this delicate musical
tension of every emotional chord, that makes the poet
more than another, that makes him our interpreter, the
revealer of our blind impulses, our truer, nobler consciousness. These better gifts, this inspiration, the poet
is bound to have and to exercise in our behalf, otherwise he is a conjuror without his wand, a king without
his sceptre, a prophet with no divining spirit. Better
far to look on the external world through our own eyes,
than with the dull, cold, languid eye of another. The
poet only blesses us when he teaches us how a mind,
ranging on broader wing, piercing with sharper vision,
more justly opel than our own to pleasures and sorrows, hopes and fears, views the world witlhin us, the
264 
TRUTH.
world about us, when hle brings light to paths ii which
we had before groped, when he sets ajar the gates which
had too much sundered us from the unseen.  Why
should he be our guide, who bears no torch? Why
should the poet sing that knows no melody?
He who lacks this very substance of poetry, emotional
thought, will most frequently strive to supply its place
with the mere mechanism of verse, with labored expression, sharp altithesis, and novel phrase, all indicative
of an effort most thoroughly self-conscious of feeble
thoughts, fully occupied with the etiquette of language,
like prim personages of fashion, lost, ingulfed in the
very act and courtesy of living.
(c.) Truth presses the same unyielding claim on
poetry as on painting or sculpture, and thlis.in some
new particulars.  The painter must make all things
consistent with the one passion and the one moment
hle has chosen to utter, but the poet must also understand all the fluctuations of feeling, and be able to trace
its phleases, -to mark correctly its growth and decay,
its abrupt and consecutive transitions, and to keep the
expression ever afloat on the current of the heart; nor
this alone under one set of circumstances, but under all
circumstances, -not alone in one character, but in all
characters. In epic and dramatic poetry, the insiglht
into human life must be accurate and broad, to meet
the conditions of truth, to keep imagination, in its most
powerful movements, within the limits of law.
The claims of truth are not inconsistent with that
rule of reason which poetry maintains amid its passion;
those superior inmpulses which it imparts to its heroes.
While closely wedded to the world that is, it is also
cognizant of the world that might, and shall be, and
265 
LECTURE XVI.
delights to give its creations a movement thitherward.
Thus does it become a moral power, impatiently strivimg with the actual, not that it may escape it, but that
it may correct it.
Akin to this, also, is the increased, and so far the unnatural, dignity and scope of language which the drama
allows her characters. It is not, as we have all along
seen, in the barren fact, in the mere vulgar actual, that
poetry delights, but in this illuminated by its own interior light, transfigured in obedience to a higher law
of its own nature, apprehended under its better impulses.   The poet transfers to the language of the
clown and the villain his own apprehension of them
respectively.  He washes them of their filth, and leaves
them before the eye in the bold, clear lineaments of
character, since this alone we are in search of.  He
shows us what is significant or powerful in them, and,
beyond this, wipes them away, as simply offensive and
burdensome. The physician, passing the detail of disease, merely directs the eye to that which is symptomatic.
Thc cleansing power of pure science, pure truth, is
remarkable; certainly that of poetry, of pure beauty,
should not be less so.  The sunbeam that lingers in the
cesspool is not tarnished thereby. Not even the beetle
has the taint of carrion. No man works more from
within than the poet, and, according to the want of
intrinsic purity in his ownIT life, will be the soil which he
will contract.
While speaking of the claims of truth, we need to
remember that truth in poetry is exceedingly distinct
from truth in philosophy in the form which it assumes.
The one seeks the naked principle, the other the facts
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SUGGESTION.
which  contain and express the principle.   The one
draws attention to the law, the other to the phenomena
under the law. It thus often happens that a spirit of
poetical criticism is not only not identical with, but
opposed to, the true spirit of poetry; that the mind
thereby falls away from the exuberance of life, of feeling, into the sharp analysis and restricted statements of
the intellect; that the element of thought in its effort to
be correct grows upon the element of emotion, robbing
it of its spontaneous impulses.
Truth in poetry is unconsciously held, a living force,
working in a living way for its own ends, and of its
own power. Truth in philosophy is the aim and determiiied product of the mind, the result of destructive distillation. The poet does not simply understand
character, thereby formally working out given results;
he possesses it in its impulses, and these realize themselves in a distinct, natural, truthful growth.  He pre sents new experience, bold character, and just phenom enla under familiar principles and old forces.
(d.) With increasing culture and the transfer of
thought and interest from the near and sensual to the
remote and supersensual, poetry more and more deals
with suggestion, demands a quicker apprehension and
an aroused imagination. as conscious of addressing
minds more critical in tleir action and broader in their
knowledge. Poetry is thus less simply narrative, less
plainly descriptive, closely cognizant of recondite pas sion, deeply reflective of interior life, subtle in its grasp
of illustrative imagery.  This tendency in poetry calls
the mind into more vigorous action, and rests the effect
largely with the receptive power of the reader. The
task of MIilton was by no means so simple as that of
267
I
i 
LECTURE XVI.
Homer, but success was no less possible and grand with
the first than with the second. The growth of refinement and knowledge, indeed, sweeps away some material of poetry, but adds other material as apt and
forceful as any that has been lost. That which is, is
not less impregnate with beauty than that which the
half-cultured mind thinks to be.  This growth makes
the labor of the poet more difficult, but also gives him
superior strength wherewith to perform it. We have
faith in poetry; we have faith in man's nature. The
one does not live merely amid the phantoms of twilight;
the other does not grow into barrenness, does not ripen
into a hard, rugged, half-worthless fact. Poetry is permanent; springing from the soil of the heart, it there
ripens into well-rounded and beautiful life. It is the
fulness of art, ranging through the representative and
creative imagination. Dealing with arbitrary symbols,
it suffers no limitations but those of feeling and language.
THE END.
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