LECTUJRES ON ART,
AND
POEMS)
WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
E DITED
By iRICHARII HELNR~Y DANA, JR,
NEW YOR~K:
BAKER AND SCRIBNER
M DCCC L,
I
BY 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by MARTHA R.
DANA, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CAMBRIDGE:
ST'I'ERE)T'YPED BY METCALF AND CONIPANY,
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY, 
PREFACE BY THE EDITOR.
UPON the death of Mr. Allston, it was determined, by those
who had charge of his papers, to prepare his biography and
correspondence, and publish them with his writings in prose
and verse; a work which would have occupied two volumes of
about the same size with the present.  A delay has unfortu   nately occurred in the preparation of the biography and corre spondence; and, as there have been frequent calls for a publi   cation of his poems, and of the Lectures on Art he is known
to have written, it has been thought best to give them to the
public in the present form, without awaiting the completion of
the whole design.  It may be understood, however, that, when
the biography and correspondence are published, it will be in
a volume precisely corresponding with the present, so as to
carly out the original design.
I will not anticipate the duty of the biographer by an extend    ed notice of the life of Mr. Allston; but it may be interesting to
some readers to know the outline of his life, and the different
circumstances under which the several pieces in this volume
were written.
WASHINGTON ALLSTON was born at Charleston, in South
Carolina, on the 5th of November, 1779, of a family distin    guished in the history of that State and of the country, being a 
PREFACE.
branch of a family of the baronet rank in the titled common alty of England. Like most young men of the South in his
position at that period, he was sent to New England to receive
his school and college education.  Htis school days were passed
at Newport, in Rhode Island, under the charge of Mr. Robert
Rogers. He entered Harvard College in 1796, and graduated
in 1800.  While at school and college, he developed in a marked manner a love of nature, music, poetry, and painting.  Endowed with senses capable of the nicest perceptions, and with a
mental and moral constitution which tended always, with the
certainty of a physical law, to the beautiful, the pure, and the
sublime, he led what many might call an ideal life. Yet was he
far from being a recluse, or from being disposed to an excess of
introversion. On the contrary, he was a popular, high-spirited
youth, almost passionately fond of society, maintaining an unusual number of warm friendships, and unsurpassed by any of
the young men of his day in adaptedness to the elegancies and
courtesies of the more refined portions of the moving world.
Romances of love, knighthood, and heroic deeds, tales of banditti, and stories of supernatural beings, were his chief delight
in his early days. Yet his classical attainments were considerable, and, as a scholar in the literature of his own language,
his reputation was early established. He delivered a poem on
taking his degree, which was much admired in its day.
On leaving college, he returned to South Carolina. Having
determined to devote his life to the fine arts, he sold, hastily
and at a sacrifice, his share of a considerable patrimonial estate,
and embarked for London in the autumn of 1801. Immediately
upon his arrival, he became a student of the Royal Academy,
of which his countryman, West, was President, with whom he
formed an intimate and lasting friendship.  After three years
i v 
PREFACE.
spent in England, and a shorter stay at Paris, he went to Italy,
where he spent four years devoted exclusively to the study of
his art.  At Rome began his intimacy with Coleridge.  Among
the many subsequent expressions of his feeling toward this great
man, none, perhaps, is more striking than the following extract
from one of his letters *-" To no other man do I owe so much,
intellectually, as to Mr. Coleridge, with whom I became ac quainted in Rome, and who has honored me with his friend ship for more than five-and-twenty years.   He used to call
Rome the silent city; but I never could think of it as such
while with him; for, meet him when and where I wvould, the
fountain of his mind was never dry, but, like the far-reaching
aqueducts that once supplied this mistress of the world, its living stream seemed specially to flow for every classic ruin over
which we wandered. And when I recall some of our walks
under the pines of the Villa Borghese, I am almost tempted to dream that I have once listened to Plato in the groves of
the Academy." Readers of Coleridge know in what estimation
he held the qualities and the friendship of Mr. Allstonl. Beside Coleridge and West, he numbered among his friends in
England, Wordsworth, Southey, Lamb, Sir George Beaumont,
Reynolds, and Fuseli.
In 1809, Mr. Allston returned to America, and remained two
years in Boston; his adopted home, and there married the sister
of Dr. Channing. In 1811, he went again to England, where
his reputation as an artist had been completely established. Before his departure, he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta
Kappa Society at Cambridge. During a severe illness, he removed from London to Clifton, at which place he wrote "The
Sylphs of the Seasons.'" In 1813, he made his first, and, with
PI *
V 
PREFACE.
the exception of "Monaldi," twenty-eight years afterwards, his
only publication. This was a small volume, entitled "The
Sylphs of the Seasons, and other Poems," published in London; and, during the same year, republished in Boston under
the direction of his friends, Professor WVillard of Cambridge
and Mr. Edmund T. Dana. This volume was well received,
and gave him a place among the first poets of his country.
The smaller poems in that edition extend as far as page 289 of
the present volume.
Beside the long and serious illness through which he passed,
his spirit was destined to suffer a deeper wound by the death of
Mrs. Allston, in London, during the same year. These events
gave to his mind a more earnest and undivided interest in his
spiritual relations, and drew him more closely than ever before
to his religious duties. He received the rite of confirmation,
and through life was a devout adherent to the Christian doctrine
and discipline.
The character of Mr. Allston's religious feelings may be gathered, incidentally, from many of his writings. It is a subject to
be treated with the reserve and delicacy with which he himself
would have had it invested. Few minds have been more thoroughly imbued with belief in the reality of the unseen world;
few have given more full assent to the truth, that "the things
which are seen are temporal, the things which are not seen are
eternal."  This was not merely an adopted opinion, a conviction imposed upon his understanding; it was of the essence of
his spiritual constitution, one of the conditions of his rational
existence. To him, the Supreme Being was no vague, mystical
source of light and truth, or an impersonation of goodness and
truth themselves; nor, on the other hand, a cold rationalistic
vi 
PREFACE.
notion of an unapproachable executor of natural and moral
laws. His spirit rested in the faith of a sympathetic God. His
belief was in a Being as infinitely minute and sympathetic in
his providences, as unlimited in his power and knowledge. Nor
need it be said, that he was a firm believer in the central
truths of Christianity, the Incarnation and Redemption; that
he turned from unaided speculation to the inspired record and
the visible Church; that he sought aid in the sacraments ordained for the strengthening of infirm humanity, and looked for
tile resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.
After a second residence of seven years in Europe, he returned to America in SS1818, and again made Boston his home.
There, in a circle of warmly attached friends, surrounded by a
sympathy and admiration which his elevation and purity, the
entire harmony of his life and pursuits, could not fail to create,
he devoted himself to his art, the labor of his love.
This is not the place to enumerate his paintings, or to speak
of his character as an artist. His general reading he continued
to the last, with the earnestness of youth.  As he retired from
society, his taste inclined him to metaphysical studies, the more,
perhaps, from their contrast with the usual occupations of his
mind. He took particular pleasure in works of devout Christian
speculation, without, however, neglecting a due proportion of
strictly devotional literature. These he varied by a constant recurrence to the great epic and dramatic masters, and occasional
reading of the earlier and the living novelists, tales of wild romance and lighter fiction, voyages and travels, biographies and
letters.  Nor was he without a strong interest in the current
polities of his own  coi-ntry and of EnglLanrd, as to wvhich his
principle~ were higly  2jjIseCVdTin
vii 
PREFACE.
Upon his marriage with the daughter of the late Judge Dana,
in 1830, he removed to Cambridge, and soon afterwards began the preparation of a course of lectures on Art, which he
intended to deliver to a select audience of artists and men
of letters in Boston.   Four of these he completed.   Rough
drafts of two others were found among his papers, but not in a
state fit for publication.   In 1841, he published his tale of
"Monaldi," a production of his early life.  The poems in the
present volume, not included in the volume of 1813, are, with
two exceptions, the work of his later years. In them, as in his
paintings of the same period, may be seen the extreme attention to finish, always his characteristic, which, added to increasing bodily pain and infirmity, was the cause of his leaving so
much that is unfinished behind him.
His death occurred at his own house, in Cambridge, a little
past midnight on the morning of Sunday, the 9th of July,
1843. He had finished a day and week of labor in his studio,
upon his great picture of Belshazzar's Feast; the fresh paint
denoting that the last touches of his pencil were given to that
glorious but melancholy monument of the best years of his later
life. Having conversed with his retiring family with peculiar
solemnity and earnestness upon the obligation and beauty of a
pure spiritual life, and on the realities of the world to come, he
had seated himself at his nightly employment of reading and
writing, which he usually carried into the early hours of the
morning. In the silence and solitude of this occupation, in a
moment, "with touch as gentle as the morning light," which
was even then approaching, his spirit was called away to its
proper home.
viii 
CONTENTS.
PREFACE BY THE EDITOR 
LECTURES ON ART.
PRELIMINARY NOTE. -IDEAS
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE
ART.....
FORM. 
COMPOSITION
3
9 9
I   75
.'111
.  143
APHORISMS.
SENTENCES WRITTEN BY MR. ALLSTON ON THE WALLS
STUDIO......... 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC
POEMS.
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS, A POET'S DREAM. 
THE TWO PAINTERS, A TALE....
ECCENTRICITY........
PAGE
iii
. 167
179
. 199
218
. 240 
ONT? IrNTS
TIlE PAINT-KING 
MYRTILLA.........
TO A LADY, WHO SPOKE SLIGHTINGLY OF POETS..           2
SONNET ON A FALLING GROUP IN THE LAST JUDGMIENT OF MICHAEL
ANGELO, IN THE CAPPELLA SISTINA.E
SONNET ON THE GROUP OF THE TIIREE ANGELS BEFORE THE TENT
OF ABRAHAM, BY RAFFAELLE, IN TIIE VATICAN          -.
SONNET ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF IEOLUS BY PELLIGRINO TIBAL
DI, IN TIlE INSTITUTE AT BOLOGNA. 
SONNET ON REMBRANDT; OCCASIONED BY IlIS PICTURE OF JACOB' S
DREAM......
SONNET ON TIlE LUXEMBOURG GALLERY..
SONNET TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND, THE PRESIDENT OF THE
ROYAL ACADEMY..........                             
THE MAD LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.2
FIRST LOVE. -A BALLAD.
THE COMPLAINT...
WILL, THE MANIAC.- A BALLAD
AMERICA TO ENGLAND..
WRITTEN IN SPRING..
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE
GLORIA MUNDI....
THE ATONEMENT...
TO MY SISTER.........
SONNET.- THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
SONNET. -THOUGHT. 
SONNET. -A SMILE.. 
SONNET.-ART.........
THE CALYCANTHUS...  2
ROSALIE..
THE SPANISH MAID...
THE TUSCAN GIRL. 
x
255
263
269
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
282
284
287
290
293
296
316
319
322
324
325
326
327
328
331
333
336 
CONTENTS.
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR
THE BETROTHED...
SONNET ON THE STATUE OF AN ANGEL, BY BIENAIME, IN TIIE
POSSESSION OF J. S. COPLEY GREENE, ESQ..
SONNET ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE
SONNET. - IMMORTALITY            
THE MARIGOLD....
A FRAGMENT.. 
THE NIGHT-MARE. 
A FRAGMENT. 
THE MAGIC SLIPPERS.
A FRAGMENT
THE PARTING   ~      
ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF
SONG.. 
ON KEAN'S HAMLET
A WORD. -MAN.
A FRAGMENT
ON MICHAEL ANGELO.
RUBENS........
TO THE AUTHOR OF " THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE.
xi
338
343
. 345
346
. 347
348
. 351
352
. 356
357
. 360
361
. 363
366
. 367
370
1.. 371
37r)
. 376
377
THE ANCEL AND CHILD 
I 
LECTURES ON ART.
1  
PRELIMINARY NOTE.
IDEAS.
As the word idea will frequently occur, and will be found
also to hold an important relation to our present subject, we
shall endeavour, in limine, to possess our readers of the particular sense in which we understand and apply it.
An Idea, then, according to our apprehension, is the highest
or most perfectform in which any thing, whether of the physical, the intellectual, or the spiritual, may exist to the mind.
By form, we do not mean figure or image (though these may
be included in relation to the physical); but that condition,
or state, in which such objects become cognizable to the mind,
or, in other words, become objects of consciousness.
Ideas are of two kinds; which we shall distinguish by the
terms primary and secondary: the first being the manifestation of objective realities; the second, that of the reflex product, so to speak, of the mental constitution. In both cases,
they may be said to be self-affirmed, - that is, they carry in
themselves their own evidence; being therefore not only independent of the reflective faculties, but constituting the only unchangeable ground of Truth, to which those faculties may ultimately refer. Yet have these Ideas no living energy in themselves; they are but theforms, as we have said, through or in
which a higher Power manifests to the consciousness the su 
LECTURES ON ART.
premrne truth of all things real, in respect to the first class; and,
in respect to the second, the imaginative truths of the mental
products, or mental combinations. Of the nature and mode of
operation of the Power to which we refer, we know, and can
know, nothing; it is one of those secrets of our being which
He who made us has kept to himself. And we should be content with the assurance, that we have in it a sure and intuitive
guide to a reverent knowledge of the beauty and grandeur of
his works,- nay, of his own adorable reality. And who shall
gainsay it, should we add, that this mysterious Power is essentially immanent in that "breath of life," by which man becomes "a living soul"?
In the following remarks we shall confine ourself to the first
class of Ideas, namely, the Real; leaving the second to be
noticed hereafter.
As to number, ideas are limited only by the number of kinds,
without direct relation to degrees; every object, therefore,
having in itself a distinctive essential, has also its distinct
idea; while two or more objects of the same kind, however
differing in degree, must consequently refer only to one and
the same. For instance, though a hundred animals should
differ in size, strength, or color, yet, if none of these peculiarities are essential to the species, they would all refer to the
same supreme idea.
The same law applies equally, and with the same limitation,
to the essential differences in the intellectual, the moral, and
the spiritual. All ideas, however, have but a potential existence until they are called into the consciousness by some real
object; the required condition of the object being a predetermined correspondence, or correlation. Every such object we
term an assimilant.
With respect to those ideas which relate to the physical
world, we remark, that, though the assimilants required are
supplied by the senses, the senses have in themselves no productive, cooperating energy, being but the passive instruments,
or medium, through which they are conveyed. That the
4 
PRE[I,IMINA. RY NOTE.
senses, in this relation, are merely passive, admits of no question, from the obvious difference between the idea and the
objects. The senses can do no more than transmit the external
in its actual forms, leaving the images in the mind exactly as
they found them; whereas the intuitive power rejects, or assimilates, indefinitely, until they are resolved into the proper
perfect form. Now the power which prescribes that form
must, of necessity, be antecedent to the presentation of the
objects which it thus assimilates, as it could not else give consistence and unity to what was before separate or fragmentary.
And every one who has ever realized an idea of the class in
which alone we compare the assimilants with the ideal form,
be he poet, painter, or philosopher, well knows the wide difference between the materials and their result.  Wlhen an idea is
thus realized and made objective, it affirms its own truth, nor
can any process of the understanding shake its foundation;
nay, it is to the mind an essential, imperative truth, then
emerging, as it were, from the dark potential into the light
of reality.
If this be so, the inference is plain, that the relation between the actual and the ideal is one of necessity, and therefore, also, is the predetermined correspondence between the
prescribed form of an idea and its assimilant; for how otherwise could the former become recipient of that which was
repugnant or indifferent, when the presence of the latter constitutes the very condition by which it is manifested, or can be
known to exist? By actual, here, we do not mean the exclusively physical, but whatever, in the strictest sense, can be
called an object, as forming the opposite to a mere subject of
the mind.
It would appear, then, that what we call ourself must have a
dual reality, that is, in the mind and in the senses, since neither
alone could possibly explain the phenomena of the other; consequently, in the existence of either we have clearly implied
the reality of both. And hence must follow the still more important truth, that, in the conscious presence of any spiritual
1.,@
5 
,LECTIURES ON ART.
idea, we have the surest proof of a spiritual object; nor is this
the less certain, though we perceive not the assimilant. Nay,
a spiritual assimilant cannot be perceived, but, to use the
words of St. Paul, is " spiritually discerned," that is, by  a
sense, so to speak, of our own spirit. But to illustrate by example: we could not, for instance, have the ideas of good and
evil without their objective realities, nor of right and wrong, in
any intelligible form, without the moral law to which they refer, - which law we call the Conscience; nor could we have
the idea of a moral law without a moral lawgiver, and, if
moral, then intelligent, and, if intelligent, then  personal;
in a word, we could not now have, as we know we have, the
idea of conscience, without an objective, personal God. Such
ideas may well be called revelations, since, without any perceived assimilant, we find them equally affirmed with those
ideas which relate to the purely physical.
But here it may be asked, How are we to distinguish an Idea
from a mere notion?   We  answer, By its self-affirmation.
For an ideal truth, having its own evidence in itself, can
neither be proved nor disproved by any thing out of itself;
whatever, then, impresses the mind as truth, is truth until it
can be shown to be false; and consequently, in the converse,
whatever can be brought into the sphere of the understanding, as a dialectic subject, is not an Idea. It will be observed,
however, that we do not say an idea may not be denied; but
to deny is not to disprove. Many things are denied in direct
contradiction to fact; for the mind can command, and in no
measured degree, the power of self-blinding, so that it cannot
see what is actually before it. This is a psychological fact,
which may be attested by thousands, who can well remember
the time when they had once clearly discerned what has now
vanished from their minds. Nor does the actual cessation of
these primeval forms, or the after presence of their fragmentary, nay, disfigured relics, disprove their reality, or their
original integrity, as we could not else call them up in their
proper forms at any future time, to the reacknowledging their
6 
PRELIMINARY NOTE,
truth: a resuscitation and result, so to speak, which many
have experienced.
In conclusion: though it be but one and the same Power
that prescribes the form and determines the truth of all Ideas,
there is yet an essential difference between the two classes
of ideas to which we have referred; for it may well be doubted
whether any Primary Idea can ever be fully realized by a finite
mind,- at least in the present state. Take, for instance, the
idea of beauty. In its highest form, as presented to the consciousness, we still find it referring to something beyond and
above itself, as if it were but an approximation to a still higher
form. The truth of this, we think, will be particularly felt by
the artist, whether poet or painter, whose mind may be supposed, from his natural bias, to be more peculiarly capable of
its highest developement; and what true artist was ever satisfied with any idea of beauty of which he is conscious? From
this approximated form, however, he doubtless derives a high
degree of pleasure, nay, one of the purest of which his nature
is capable; yet still is the pleasure modified, if we may so
express it, by an undefined yearning for what he feels can
never be realized. And wherefore this craving, but for the
archetype of that which called it forth?- -When we say not
satisfied, we do not mean discontented, but simply not in full
fruition. And it is better that it should be so, since one of the
happiest elements of our nature is that which continually impels it towards the indefinite and unattainable. So far as we
know, the like limits may be set to every other primary idea,
-as if the Creator had reserved to himself alone the possible
contemplation of the archetypes of his universe.
With regard to the other class, that of Secondary Ideas,
which we have called the reflex product of the mind, their
distinguishing characteristic is, that they not only admit of a
perfect realization, but also of outward manifestation, so as
to be communicated to others. All works of imagination, so
called, present examples of this. Hence they may also be
termed imitative or imaginative. For, though they draw their
7 
LECTUJRES ON ART.
assimilants from the actual world, and are likewise regulated
by the unknown Power before mentioned, yet are they but
the forms of what, as a whole, have no actual existence;they are nevertheless true to the mind, and are made so by the
same Power which affirms their possibility. This species of
Truth we shall hereafter have occasion to distinguish as Poetic
Truth.
8 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
NEXT to the developement of our moral nature, to
have subordinated the senses to the mind is the highest
triumph of the civilized state. Were it possible to enmbody the present complicated scheme of society, so as
to bring it before us as a visible object, there is perhaps
nothing in the world of sense that would so fill us with
wonder; for what is there in nature that may not fall
within its limits? and yet how small a portion of this
stupendous fabric will be found to have any direct,
much less exclusive, relation to the actual wants of the
body! It might seem, indeed, to an unreflecting observer, that our physical necessities, which, truly estimated, are few and simple, have rather been increased than
diminished by the civilized man. But this is not true;
for, if a wider duty is imposed on the senses, it is only
to minister to the increased demands of the imagination,
which is now so mingled with our every-day concerns,
even with our dress, houses, and furniture, that, except
with the brutalized, the purely sensuous wants might
almost be said to have become extinct: with the cultivated and refined, they are at least so modified as to be
no longer prominent.
But this refining on the physical, like every thing else, 
LECTURES ON AR'r.
has had its opponents: it is declaimed against as artificial. If by artificial is meant unnatural, we cannot so consider it; but hold, on the contrary, that the
whole multiform scheme of the civilized state is not
only in accordance with our nature, but an essential
condition to the proper developement of the human
being. It is presupposed by the very wants of his
mind; nor could it otherwise have been, any more than
could have been the cabin of the beaver, or the curious
hive of the bee, without their preexisting instincts; it
is therefore in the highest sense natural, as growing out
of the inherent desires of the mind.
But we would not be misunderstood.  When  we
speak of the refined state as not out of nature, we
mean such results as proceed from the legitimate
growth of our mental constitution, which we suppose
to be grounded in permanent, universal principles; and,
whatever modifications, however subtile, and apparently visionary, may follow their operation in the world
of sense, so long as that operation diverge not from
its original ground, its effect must be, in the strictest
sense, natural. Thus the wildest visions of poetry, the
unsubstantial forms of painting, and the mysterious
harmonies of music, that seem to disembody the spirit,
and make us creatures of the air, - even these, unreal as
they are, may all have their foundation in immutable
truth; and we may moreover know of this truth by its
own evidence. Of this species of evidence we shall
have occasion to speak hereafter. But there is another
kind of growth, which may well be called unnatural;
we mean, of those diseased appetites, whose effects are
seen in the distorted forms of the conventional, having
no ground but in weariness of the true; and it cannot
be denied that this morbid growth has its full share
10 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
inwardly and outwardly, both of space and importance.
These, however,  must  sooner or later end  as  they
began; they perish in the lie they make; and it were
well did not other falsehoods take their places, to prolong a life whose only tenure is inconsequential succession,- in other words, Fashion.
If it be true, then, that even the  commonplaces
of life must all in some degree partake of the mental,
there can be but one rule by which to determine  the
proper rank of any object of pursuit, and that is by its
nearer or more remote relation to our inward nature.
Every system, therefore, which tends to degrade a mental pleasure to the subordinate or superfluous, is both
narrow and false, as virtually reversing its natural
order.
It pleased our Creator, when he endowed us with
appetites and functions by which to sustain the economy of life, at the same time to annex to their exercise
a sense of pleasure; hence our daily food, and the daily
alternation of repose and action, are no less grateful
than imperative.   That life may  be sustained, and
most of its functions performed, wvithlout any coincident
enjoyment, is certainly possible. Our food may be distasteful, action painful, and rest unrefreshing; and yet
we may eat, and exercise, and sleep, nay, live thus for
years. But this is not our natural condition, and we
call it disease. Were man a mere animal, the very act
of living, in his natural or healthy state, would be to
him a continuous enjoyment. But he is also a moral
and an intellectual being; and, in like manner, is the
healthful condition of these, the nobler parts of his
nature, attended with something more than a consciousness of the mere process of existence.  To the exercise of his intellectual faculties and moral attributes
11 
LECTURES ON ART.
the same benevolent law has superadded a sense of
pleasure, - of a kind, too, in the same degree transcend ing the highest bodily sensation, as must that which is
immortal transcend the perishable. It is not for us to
ask why it is so; much less, because it squares not
with the poor notion of material usefulness, to call in
question a fact that announces a nature to which the
senses are but passing ministers. Let us rather receive
this ennobling law, at least without misgiving, lest in
our sensuous wisdom we exchange an enduring gift for
a transient gratification.
Of the peculiar fruits of this law, which we shall here
distinguish by the general term mental pleasures, it is
our purpose to treat in the present discourse.
It is with no assumed diffidence that we venture on
this subject; for, though we shall offer nothing not believed to be true, we are but too sensible how small a
portion of truth it is in our power to present. But,
were it far greater, and the present writer of a much
higher order of intellect, there would still be sufficient
cause for humility in view of those impassable bounds
that have ever met every self-questioning of the mind.
But whilst the narrowness of human knowledge may
well preclude all self-exaltation, it would be worse than
folly to hold as naught the many important truths
which have been wrought out for us by the mighty intellects of the past.  If they have left us nothing for
vainglory, they have left us at least enough to be
grateful for. Nor is it a little, that they have taught us
to look into those mysterious chambers of our being, -
the abode of the spirit; and not a little, indeed, if what
we are there permitted to know shall have brought
with it the conviction, that we are not abandoned to a
blind empiricism, to waste life- in guesses, and to guess
12 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
at last that we have all our lives been guessing wrong,
- but, unapproachable though it be to the subordinate
Understanding, that we have still within us an abiding
Interpreter, which cannot be gainsaid, which makes our
duty to God and man clear as the light, which ever
guards the fountain of all true pleasures, nay, which
holds in subjection the last high gift of the Creator,
that imaginative faculty whereby his exalted creature,
made in his image, might mould at will, from his
most marvellous world, yet unborn forms, even forms
of beauty, grandeur, and majesty, having all of truth
but his own divine prerogative,- the mystery of Life.
As the greater part of those Pleasures which we propose to discuss are intimately connected with the material world, it may be well, perhaps, to assign some
reason for the epithet mental.  To many, we know,
this will seem superfluous; but, when it is remembered
how often we hear of this and that object delighting
the eye, or of certain sounds charming the ear, it may
not be amiss to show that such expressions have really
no meaning except as metaphors. When the senses,
as the medium of communication, have conveyed to
the mind either the sounds or images, their function
ceases. So also with respect to the objects: their end
is attained, at least as to us, when the sounds or images are thus transmitted, which, so far as they are
concerned, must for ever remain the same within as
without the mind. For, where the ultimate end is not
in mere bodily sensation, neither the senses nor the
objects possess, of themselves, any productive power;
of the product that follows, the tertium aliquid, whether
the pleasure we feel be in a beautiful animal or in according sounds, neither the one nor the other is really
the cause, but simply the occasion. It is clear, then,
P
13 
LECTURES ON ART.
that the effect realized supposes of necessity another
agent, which must therefore exist only in the mind.
But of this hereafter.
If the cause of any emotion, which we seem to derive from an outward object, were inherent exclusively in the object itself, there could be no failure in
any instance, except where the organs of sense were
either diseased or imperfect. But it is a matter of fact
that they often do fail where there is no disease or organic defect.  Many of us, perhaps, can call to mind
certain individuals, whose sense of hearing is as acute
as our own, who yet can by no possibility be made to
recognize the slightest relation between the according
notes of the simplest melody; and, though they can
as readily as others distinguish the individual sounds,
even to the degrees of flatness and sharpness, the harmonic agreement is to them as mere noise.  Let us
suppose ourselves present at a concert, in company
with one such person and another who possesses what
is called musical sensibility. Hlow are they affected,
for instance, by a piece of MIozart's? In the sense of
hearing they are equal: look at them.  In the one we
perceive perplexity, annoyance, perhaps pain; he hears
nothing but a confused medley of sounds. In the
other, the whole being is rapt in ecstasy, the unutterable pleasure gushes from his eyes, he cannot articulate
his emotion; - il the words of one, who felt and embodied the subtile mystery in immortal verse, his very
soul seems "lapped in Elysium." Now, could this
difference be possible, were the sole cause, strictly
speaking, in mere matter?
Nor do we contradict our position, when we admit, in certain cases, - for instance, in the producer,
the necessity of a nicer organization, in order to the
14 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
more perfect transnmision of the finer emotions; inasmuch as what is to be communicated in space and time
must needs be by some medium adapted thereto.
Such a person as Paganini, it is said, was abDle to
"discourse most excellent music" on a ballad-monger's
fiddle; yet will any one question that he needed an
instrument of somewhat finer construction to show
forth his full powers? Nay, we might add, that he
needed no less than the most delicate Cremona, -some
instrument, as it were, articulated into humanity,- to
have inhaled and respired those attenuated strains,
which, those who heard them think it hardly extravagant to say, seemed almost to embody silence.
Now this mechanical instrument, by means of which
such marvels were \wrought, is but one of the many
visible symbols of that more subtile instrument through
which the mind acts when it would manifest itself.  It
would be too absurd to ask if any one believed that the
music we speak of was created, as well as conveyed, by
the instrument. The violin of Paganini may still be
seen and handled; but the soul that inspired it is buried
with its master.
If we admit a distinction between mind and matter,
and the result we speak of be purely mental, we should
contradict the universal law of nature to assign such a
product to mere matter, inasmuch as the natural law
forbids in the lower the production of the higher. Take
an example from one of the lower forms of organic life,
-a common vegetable. Will any one assert that the
surrounding inorganic elements of air, earth, heat, and
water produce its peculiar form? Though some, or
all, of these may be essential to its developement, they
are so only as its predetermined correlatives, without
which its existence could not be manifested; and in
15 
L,ECTURES ON ART.
like manner must the peculiar form of the vegetable
preexist in its life, -  in its idea,- in order to evolve by
these assimilants its own proper organism.
No possible modification in the degrees or proportion
of these elements can change the specific form of a
plant, -for instance, a cabbage into a cauliflower; it
must ever remain a cabbage, small or large, good or bad.
So, too, is the external world to the mind; which needs,
also, as the condition of its manifestation, its objective
correlative. Hence the presence of some outward object, predetermined to correspond to the preexisting
idea in its living power, is essential to the evolution of
its proper end,- the pleasurable emotion. We beg it
may be noted that we do not say sensation. And hence
we hold ourself justified in speaking of such presence
as simply the occasion, or condition, and not, per se,
the cause. And hence, moreover, may be inferred the
absolute necessity of Dual Forces in order to the actual
existence of any thing. One alone, the incomprehensible Author of all things, is self-subsisting in his perfect
Unity.
We shall now endeavour to establish the following
proposition: namely, that the Pleasures in question
have their true source in One Intuitive Universal Principle or living Power, and that the three Ideas of Beauty,
Truth, and Holiness, which we assume to represent the
perfect in the physical, intellectual, and moral worlds,
are but the several realized phases of this sovereign principle, which we shall call Harmony.
Our first step, then, is to possess ourself of the essential or distinctive characteristic of these pleasurable
emotions. Apparently, there is nothing more simple.
And yet we are acquainted with no single term that
shall fully express it. But what every one has more or
16 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
less felt may certainly be made intelligible in a more
extended form, and, we should think, by any one in
the slightest degree competent to self-examination.  Let
a person, then, be appealed to; and let him put the
question as to what passes within him when possessed
by these emotions; and the spontaneous feeling will
answer for us, that what we call self has no part in
them. Nay, we further assert, that, when singly felt,
that is, when unallied to other emotions as modifying
forces, they are wholly unmixed  with  any personal
considerations, or any conscious advantage to tle individual.
Nor is this assigning too high a character to the feelings in question because awakened in so many instances by thie purely physical; since their true origin
may clearly be traced to a common source with those
profounder emotions which we are wont to ascribe to
the intellectual and moral. Besides, it should be borne
in mind, that no physical object can be otherwise to the
mind than a mere occasion; its inward product, or mental effect, being from another Power. The proper view
therefore is, not that such alliance can ever degrade the
higher agent, but that its more humble and material
assimilant is thus elevated by it.  So that nothing in
nature should be counted mean, which can thus be
exalted; but rather be honored, since no object can become so assimilated except by its predetermined correlation to our better nature.
Neither is it the privilege of the exclusive few, the
refined and cultivated, to feel them deeply. If we look
beyond ourselves, even to the promiscuous multitude,
the instance will be rare, if existing at all, where some
transient touch of these purer feelings has not raised
the individual to, at least, a momentary exemption from
2 -
17 
,LECTURES ON ART.
the common thraldom of self. And we greatly err if
their universality is not solely limited by those "shades
of the prison-house," which, in the words of the poet,
too often "close upon the growing boy." Nay, so far
as we have observed, we cannot admit it as a question
whether any person through a whole life has always
been wholly insensible, - we will not say (though well
we might) to the good and true, - but to beauty; at
least, to some one kind, or degree, of the beautiful.
The most abject wretch, however animalized by vice,
may still be able to recall the time when a morning or
evening sky, a bird, a flower, or the sight of some other
object in nature, has given him a pleasure, which he
felt to be distinct from that of his animal appetites, and
to which he could attach not a thought of self-interest.
And, though crime and misery may close the heart for
years, and seal it up for ever to every redeeming thought,
they cannot so shut out from the memory these gleams
of innocence; even the brutified spirit, the castaway
of his kind, has been made to blush at this enduring
light; for it tells him of a truth, which might else
have never been remembered, - that he has once been
a man.
And here may occur a question, -which might well
be left to the ultra advocates of the cui bono, - whether
a simple flower may not sometimes be of higher use
than a labor-saving machine.
As to the objects whose effect on the mind is here
discussed, it is needless to specify them; they are, in
general, all such as are known to affect us in the
manner described. The catalogue will vary both in
number and kind with different persons, according to
the degree of force or developement in the overruling
Principle.
i8 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
We proceed, then, to reply to such objections as will
doubtless be urged against the characteristic assumed.
And first, as regards the Beautiful, we shall probably
be met by the received notion, that we experience in
Beauty one of the most powerful incentives to passion;
while examples without number will be brought in
array to prove it also the wonder-working cause of
almost fabulous transformations, - as giving energy to
the indolent, patience to the quick, perseverance to the
fickle, even courage to the timid; and, vice versa, as unmanning the hero, - nay, urging the honorable to falsehood, treason, and murder; in a word, through the
mastered, bewildered, sophisticated self, as indifferently
raising and sinking the fascinated object to the heights
and depths of pleasure and misery, of virtue and vice.
Now, if the Beauty here referred to is of the human
being, we do not gainsay it; but this is beauty in its
mired mode, - not in its high, passionless form, its singleness and purity. It is not Beauty as it descended
from heaven, in the cloud, the rainbow, the flower, the
bird, or in the concord of sweet sounds, that seem to
carry back the soul to whencee it came.
Could we look, indeed, at the human form in its simple, unallied physical structure, - on that, for instance,
of a beautiful woman, - and forget, or rather not feel,
that it is other than a form, there could be but one
feeling: that nothing visible was ever so framed to
banish from the soul every ignoble thought, and imbue
it, as it were, with primeval innocence.
We are quite aware that the doctrine assumed in
our main proposition with regard to Beauty, as holding
exclusive relation to the Physical, is not very likely to
forestall favor  we therefore beg for it only such candid
attention as, for the reasons advanced, it may appear to
deserve.
19 
LECTURES ON ART.
That such effects as have just been objected could
not be from Beauty alone, in its pure and single form,
but rather from its coincidence with some real or sup posed moral or intellectual quality, or with the animal
appetites, seems to us clear; as, were it otherwise, we
might infer the same from a beautiful infant, - the very
thought of which is revolting to common sense. In
such conjunction, indeed, it cannot but have a certain
influence, but so modified as often to become a mere
accessory, subordinated to the animal or moral object,
and for the attainment of an end not its own; in proof
of which, we find it almost uniformly partaking the
penalty imposed on its incidental associates, should
ever their desires result in illusion, -namely, in the
aversion that follows. But the result of Beauty can
never be such; when it seems otherwise, the effect, we
think, can readily be traced to other causes, as we shall
presently endeavour to show.
It cannot be a matter of controversy whether Beauty
is limited to the human form; the daily experience of
the most ordinary man would answer No: he finds it in
the woods, the fields, in plants and animals, nay, in a
thousand objects, as he looks upon nature; nor, though
indefinitely diversified, does he hesitate to assign to
each the same epithet. And why? Because the feelings awakened by all are similar in kind, though varying, doubtless, by many degrees in intenseness. Now
suppose he is asked of what personal advantage is all
this beauty to him.  Verily, he would be puzzled to
answer. It gives him pleasure, perhaps great pleasure.
And this is all he could say. But why should the effect
be different, except in degree, from the beauty of a
human being? We have already the answer in this
concluding term. For what is a human being but one
20 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
who unites in himself a physical, intellectual, and moral
nature, which cannot in one become even an object of
thought without at least some obscure shadowings of
its natural allies? How, then, can we separate that
which has an exclusive relation to his physical form,
without some perception of the moral and intellectual
with which it is joined? But how do we know that
Beauty is limited to such exclusive relation? This
brings us to the great problem; so simple and easy of
solution in all other cases, yet so intricate and apparently inexplicable in man. In other things, it would be
felt absurd to make it a question, whether referring to
form, color, or sound.  A  single instance will suffice.
Let us suppose, then, an unfamiliar object, whose
habits, disposition, and so forth, are wholly unknown,
for instance, a bird of paradise, to be seen for the first
time by twenty persons, and they all instantly call it
beautiful; - could there be any doubt that the pleasure
it produced in each was of the same kind? or would
any one of them ascribe his pleasure to any thing but
its form and plumage? Concerning natural objects,
and those inferior animals which are not under the influence of domestic associations, there is little or no difference among men: if they differ, it is only in degree,
according to their sensibility.   Men  do not dispute
about a rose. And why? Because there is nothing
beside the physical to interfere with the impression it
was predetermined to make; and the idea of beauty
is realized instantly. So, also, with respect to other
objects of an opposite character; they can speak with out deliberating, and call them plain, homely, ugly, and
so on, thus instinctively expressing even their degree of
remoteness from the condition of beauty. Who ever
called a pelican beautiful, or even many animals en
21 
LECTURES ON ART.
deared to us by their valuable qualities, - such as the
intelligent and docile elephant, or the affectionate
orang-outang, or the faithful mastiff? Nay, we may
run through a long list of most useful and amiable
creatures, that could not, under any circumstances, give
birth to an emotion corresponding to that which we
ascribe to the beautiful.
But there is scarcely a subject on which mankind are
wider at variance, than on the beauty of their own species, - some preferring this, and others that, particular
conformation; which can only be accounted for on the
supposition of some predominant expression, either
moral, intellectual, or sensual, with which they are in
sympathy, or else the reverse. While some will task
their memory, and resort to the schools, for their supposed infallible rules; - forgetting, meanwhile, that ultimate tribunal to which their canon must itself appeal,
the ever-living principle which first evolved its truth,
and which now, as then, is not to be reasoned about,
butfelt. It need not be added how fruitful of blunders
is this mechanical ground.
Now we venture to assert that no mistake was ever
made, even in a single glance, concerning any natural
object, not disfigured by human caprice, or which the
eye had not been trained to look at through some conventional medium. Under this latter circumstance,
there are doubtless many things in nature which affect
men very differently; and more especially such as, from
their familiar nearness, have come under the influence
of opinion, and been incrusted, as it were, by the suecessive deposits of many generations. But of the vast
and'various multitude of objects which have thus been
forced from their original state, there is perhaps no
one which has undergone so many and such strange
22 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
disfigurements as the human form; or in relation to
which our "ideas," as we are pleased to call them, but
in truth our opinions, have been so fluctuating. If an
Idea, indeed, had any thing to do with Fashion, we
should call many things monstrous to which custom
has reconciled us. Let us suppose a case, by way
of illustration. A gentleman and lady, from one of
our fashionable cities, are making a tour on the borders
of some of our new settlements in the West. They are
standing on the edge of a forest, perhaps admiring
the grandeur of nature; perhaps, also, they are lovers,
and sharing with nature their admiration for each other,
whose personal charms are set off to the utmost, according to the most approved notions, by the taste and
elegance of their dress. Then suppose an Indian hunter, who had never seen one of our civilized world, or
heard of our costume, coming suddenly upon them,
their faces being turned from him. Would it be possible for him to imagine what kind of animals they
were? We think not; and least of all, that he would
suppose them to be of his own species. This is no
improbable case; and we very much fear, should it ever
occur, that the unrefined savage would go home with
an impression not very flattering either to the milliner
or the tailor.
That, under such disguises, we should consider human
beauty as a kind of enigma, or a thing to dispute about,
is not surprising; nor even that we should often differ
from ourselves, when so much of the outward man is
thus made to depend on the shifting humors of some
paramount Petronius of the shears.  But, admitting it
to be an easy matter to divest the form, or, what is still
more important, our own minds, of every thing conventional, there is the still greater obstacle to any true
23 
LECTURES ON ART.
effect from the person alone, in that moral admixture,
already mentioned, which, more or less, must color the
most of our impressions from every individual.  Is
there not, then, sufficient ground for at least a doubt if,
excepting idiots, there is one human being in whom the
purely physical is at all times the sole agent?  We do
not say that it does not generally predominate. But, in
a compound being like man, it seems next to impossible that the nature within should not at times, in some
degree, transpire through the most rigid texture of the
outward form. We may not, indeed, always read
aright the character thus obscurely indexed, or even be
able to guess at it, one way or the other; still, it will
affect us; nay, most so, perhaps, when most indefinite. Every man is, to a certain extent, a physiognomist: we do not mean, according to the common acceptation, that he is an interpreter of lines and quaintities, which may be reduced to rules; but that he is
born one, judging, not by any conscious rule, but by an
instinct, which he can neither explain nor comprehend,
and which compels him to sit in judgment, whether he
will or no. How else can we account for those instantaneous sympathies and antipathies towards an utter
stranger?
Now this moral influence has a twofold source, one
in the object, and another in ourselves; nor is it easy to
determine which is the stronger as a counteracting
force. Hitherto we have considered only the former;
we now proceed with a few remarks upon the latter.
Will any man say, that he is wholly without some
natural or acquired bias? This is the source of the
counteracting influence which we speak of in ourselves;
but which, like many other of the secret springs, both
of thought and feeling, few men think of.  It is never
24 
INTRODICTORY DISCOURSE.
theless one which, on this particular subject, is scarcely
ever inactive; and according to the bias will be our impressions, whether we be intellectual or sensual, coldly
speculative or ardently imaginative. We do not mean
that it is always called forth by every thing we approach; we speak only of its usual activity between
man and man; for there seems to be a mysterious
something in our nature, that, in spite of our wishes,
will rarely allow of an absolute indifference towards
any of the species; some effect, however slight, even as
that of the air which we unconsciously inhale and again
respire, must follow, whether directly from the object or
reacting from ourselves. Nay, so strong is the law,
whether in attraction or repulsion, that we cannot resist
it even in relation to those human shadows projected
on air by the mere imagination; for we feel it in art
only less than in nature, provided, however, that the
imagined being possess but the indication of a human
soul: yet not so is it, if presenting only the outward
form, since a mere form can in itself have no affinity
with either the heart or intellect. And here we would
ask, Does not this striking exception in the present argument cast back, as it were, a confirmatory reflection?
We have often thought, that the power of the mere
form could not be more strongly exemplified than at a
common paint-shop. Among the annual importations
from the various marts of Europe, how many beautiful
faces, without an atom of meaning, attract the passengers, -stopping high and low, people of all descriptions,
and actually giving pleasure, if not to every one, at
least to the majority; and very justly, for they have
beauty, and nothin, else.  But let another artist, some
man of genius, copy the same faces, and add character,
breathe into them souls: from that moment the passers,
31
25 
LECTURES ON ART.
by would see as if with other eyes; the affections and
the imagination then become the spectators; and, according to the quickness or dulness, the vulgarity or
refinement, of these, would be the impression.  Thus
a coarse mind may feel the beauty in the hard, soulless forms of Van der Werf, yet turn away with apathy
from the sanctified loveliness of a Madonna by Raffaelle.
But to return to the individual bias, which is continually inclining to, or repelling What is more common, especially with women, than a high admiration
of a plain person, if connected with wit, or a pleasing
address? Can we have a stronger case in point than
that of the celebrated Wilkes, one of the ugliest, yet
one of the most admired men of his time? Even his
own sex, blinded no doubt by their sympathetic bias,
could see no fault in him, either in mind or person; for,
when it was objected to the latter, that "he squinted
confoundedly," the reply was, " No, Sir, not more than a
gentleman ought to squint."
Of the tendency to particular pursuits, -to art, science, or any particular course of life, -we do not
speak; the bias we allude to is in the more personal disposition of the man, - in that which gives a tone to his
internal character; nor is it material of what proportions
compounded, of the affections, or the intellect, or the
senses,-whether of some only, or the whole; that these
form the ground of every man's bias is no less certain,
than the fact that there is scarcely any secret which men
are in the habit of guarding with such sedulous care.
Nay, it would seem as if every one were impelled to it
by some superstitious instinct, that every one might
have it to say to himself, There is one thing in me which
is all gny own. Be this as it may, there are few things
26 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
more hazardous than to pronounce with confidence on
any man's bias. Indeed, most men would be puzzled
to name it to themselves; but its existence in them
is not the less a fact, because the form assumed may
be so mixed and complicated as to be utterly undefinable. It is enough, however, that every one feels, and is
more or less led by it, whether definite or not.
This being the case, how is it possible that it should
not in some degree affect our feelings towards every
one we meet, - that it should not leave some speck of
leaven on each impression, which shall impregnate it
with something that we admire and love, or else with
that which we hate and despise?
And what is the most beautiful or the most ungainly
form before a sorcerer like this, who can endow a fair
simpleton with the rarest intellect, or transform, by a
glance, the intellectual, noble-hearted dwarf to an angel
of light? These, of course, are extreme cases. But if
true in these, as we have reason to believe, how formidable the power!
But though, as before observed, we may not read
this secret with precision, it is sometimes possible to
make a shrewd guess at the prevailing tendency in certain individuals. Perhaps the most obvious cases are
among the sanguine and imaginative; and the guess
would be, that a beautiful person would presently be
enriched with all possible virtues, while the colder
speculatist would only see in it, not what it possessed,
but the mind that it wanted. Now it would be curious
to imagine (and the case is not impossible) how the
eyes of each might be opened, with the probable consequence, how each might feel when his eyes were
opened, and the object was seen as it really is. Some
untoward circumstance comes unawares on the perfect
27 
LECTURES ON ART.
creature: a burst of temper knits the brow, inflames the
eye, inflates the nostril, gnashes the teeth, and converts
the angel into a storming fury. What then becomes
of the visionary virtues? They have passed into air,
and taken with them, also, what was the fair creature's
right, - her very beauty. Yet a different change takes
place with the dry man of intellect. The mindless
object has taken shame of her ignorance; she begins to
cultivate her powers, which are gradually developed
until they expand and brighten; they inform her features, so that no one can look upon them without seeing
the evidence of no common intellect: the dry man, at
last, is struck with their superior intelligence, and
what more surprises him is the grace and beauty,
which, for the first time, they reveal to his eyes. The
learned dust which had so long buried his heart is
quickly brushed away, and he weds the embodied mind.
What third change may follow, it is not to our purpose
to foresee.
Has human beauty, then, no power? When united
with virtue and intellect, we might almost answer,All power. It is the embodied harmony of the true
poet; his visible Muse; the guardian angel of his better
nature; the inspiring sibyl of his best affections, drawing him to her with a purifying charm, from the selfishness of the world, from poverty and neglect, from the low
and base, nay, from his own frailty or vices: -for he
cannot approach her with unhallowed thoughts, whom
the unlettered and ignorant look up to with awe, as to
one of a race above them; before whom the wisest and
best bow down without abasement, and would bow
in idolatry but for a higher reverence. No! there is
no power like this of mortal birth. But against the
antagonist moral, the human beauty of itself has no
28 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
power, no self-sustaining life. While it panders to evil
desires, then, indeed, there are few things may parallel its fearful might. But the unholy alliance must at
last have an end. Look at it then, when the beautiful
serpent has cast her slough.
Let us turn to it for a moment, and behold it in
league with elegant accomplishments and a subtile intellect: how complete its triumph! If ever the soul
may be said to be intoxicated, it is then, when it feels
the full power of a beautiful, bad woman. The fabled
enchantments of the East are less strange and wonderworklting than the marvellous changes which her spell
has wrought. For a time every thought seems bound
to her will; the eternal eye of the conscience closes before her; the everlasting truths of right and wrong sleep
at her bidding; nay, things most gross and abhorred
become suddenly invested with a seeming purity: till
the whole mind is hers, and the bewildered victim,
drunk with her charms, calls evil good. Then, what may
follow?  Read the annals of crime; it will tell us what
follows the broken spell, - broken by the first degrading theft, the first stroke of the dagger, or the first drop
of poison. The felon's eye turns upon the beautiful
sorceress with loathing and abhorrence: an asp, a toad,
is not more hateful! The story of Milwood has many
counterparts.
But, although Beauty cannot sustain itself permanently against what is morally bad, and has no direct
power of producing good, it yet may, and often does,
when unobstructed, through its unimpassioned purity,
predispose to the good, except, perhaps, in natures
grossly depraved; inasmuch as all affinities to the pure
are so many reproaches to the vitiated mind, unless
convertible to some selfish end.  Witness the beautiful
3*
29 
LECTURES ON ART.
wife, wedded for what is misnamed love, yet becoming
the scorn of a brutal husband, -the more bitter, perhaps, if she be also good. But, aside from those counteracting causes so often mentioned, it is as we have
said: we are predisposed to feel kindly, and to think
purely, of every beautiful object, until we have reason to
think otherwise; and according to our own hearts will
be our thoughts.
We are aware of but one other objection which has
not been noticed, and which might be made to the
intuitive nature of the Idea. How is it, we may be
asked, that artists, who are supposed, from their early
discipline, to have overcome all conventional bias, and
also to have acquired the more difficult power of analyzing their models, so as to contemplate them in their
separate elements, have so often varied as to their ideas
of Beauty?  Whether artists have really the power thus
ascribed to them, we shall not here inquire; it is no
doubt, if possible, their business to acquire it. But, admitting it as true, we deny the position: they do not
change their ideas. They can have but one Idea of
Beauty, inasmuch as that Idea is but a specific phase of
one immutable Principle,-if there be such a principle;
as we  shall hereafter endeavour to  show.   Nor can
they have of it any essentially different, much less opposite, conceptions: but their apprehension of it may undergo many apparent changes, which, nevertheless, are
but the various degrees that only mark a fuller conception; as their more extended acquaintance with the
higher outward assimilants of Beauty brings them, of
course, nearer to a perfect realization of the preexisting
Idea. By perfect, here, we mean only the nearest approximation by man. And we appeal to every artist,
competent to answer, if it be not so. Does he ever
30 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
descend from a higher assimilant to a lower? Suppose
him to have been born in Italy; would he go to Holland to realize his Idea? But many a Dutchman has
sought in Italy what he could not find in his own
country.  We do not by this intend any reflection on
the latter, - a country so fruitful of genius; it is only
saying that the human form' in Italy is from a finer
mould. Then, what directs the artist from one object
to another, and determines him which to choose, if he
has not the guide within him?  And why else should
all nations instinctively bow before the superior forms
of Greece?
We add but one remark. Supposing the artist to
be wholly freed from all modifying biases, such is seldom the case with those who criticize his work,especially those who would show their superiority by
detecting faults, and who frequently condemn the
painter simply for not expressing what he never aimed
at. As to some, they are never content if they do not
find beauty, whatever the subject, though it may neutralize the character, if not render it ridiculous.  Were
Raffaelle, who seldom sought the purely beautiful, to be
judged by the want of it, he would fall below Guido.
But his object was much higher,- in the intellect and
the affections; it was the human being in his endless
inflections of thought and passion, in which there is
little probability he will ever be approached. Yet false
criticism has been as prodigal to him in the ascription
of beauty, as parsimonious and unjust to many others.
In conclusion, may there not be, in the difficulty we
have thus endeavoured to solve, a probable significance
of the responsible, as well as distinct, position which
the Human being holds in the world of life? Are there
no shadowings, in that reciprocal influence between
31 
LECTURES ON ART.
soul and soul, of some mysterious chain which links
together the human family in its two extremes, giving
to the very lowest an indefeasible claim on the highest,
so that we cannot be independent if we would, or indif ferent even to the very meanest, without violation of an
imperative law of our nature? And does it not at
least hint of duties and affections towards the most de formed in body, the most depraved in mind, - of inter minable consequences? If man were a mere animal,
though the highest animal, could these inscrutable influences affect us as they do? Would not the animal
appetites be our true and sole end?  What even would
Beauty be to the sated appetite? If it did not, as in
the last instance, of the brutal husband, become an
object of scorn, -which it could not be, from the necessary absence of moral obliquity, -would it be better
than a picked bone to a gorged dog? Least of all
could it resemble the visible sign of that pure idea, in
which so many lofty minds have recognized the type of
a far higher love than that of earth, which the soul
shall know, when, in a better world, she shall realize the
ultimate reunion of Beauty with the coeternal forms of
Truth and Holiness.
We will now apply the eharaeteristic assumed to the
second leading Idea, namely, to Truth. In the first
place, we take it for granted, that no one will deny to
the perception of truth some positive pleasure; no one,
at least, who is not at the same time prepared to eontradiet the general sense of mankind, nay, we will add,
their universal experience. The moment we begin to
think, we begin to acquire, whether it be in trifles or
otherwise, some kind of knowledge; and of two things
presented to our notice, supposing one to be true and
the other false, no one ever knowingly, and for its own
32 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
sake, chooses the false: whatever he may do in after
life, for some selfish purpose, he cannot do so in childhood, where there is no such motive, without violence
to his nature. And here we are supposing the understanding, with its triumphant pride and subtilty, out of
the question, and the child making his choice under the
spontaneous sense of the true and the false. For, were
it otherwise, and the choice indifferent, what possible
foundation for the commonest acts of life, even as it
respects himself, would there be to him who should sow
with lies the very soil of his growing nature. It is time
enough in manhood to begin to lie to one's self; but a
self-lying youth can have no proper self to rest on, at
any period. So that the greatest liar, even Ferdinand
Mendez Pinto, must have loved the truth, - at least at
one time of his life. We say loved; for a voluntary
choice implies of necessity some degree of pleasure in
the choosing, however faint the emotion or insignificant
the object. It is, therefore, cceteris paribus, not only
necessary, but natural, to find pleasure in truth.
Now the question is, whether the pleasurable emotion, which is, so to speak, the indigenous growth of
Truth, can in any case be free of self, or some personal
gratification. To this, we apprehend, there will be no
lack of answer. Nay, the answer has already been
given from the dark antiquity of ages, that even for her
own exceeding loveliness has Truth been canonized. If
there was any thing of self in the Eureka of Pythagoras,
there was not in the acclamations of his country who
rejoiced with him. But we may doubt the feeling, if
applied to him. If wealth or fame has sometimes
followed in the track of Genius, it has followed as an
accident, but never preceded, as the efficient conductor
to any great discovery. For what is Genius but the
33 
LECTURES- ON ART.
prophetic revealer of the unseen True, that can neither
be purchased nor bribed into light? If it come, then, at
all, it must needs be evoked by a kindred love as pure
as itself. Shall we appeal to the artist? If he deserve
the name, he will disdain the imputation that either
wealth or fame has ever aided at the birth of his ideal
offspring: it was Truth that smiled upon him, that made
light his travail, that blessed their birth, and, by her fond
recognition, imparted to his breast her own- most pure,
unimpassioned emotion. But, whatever mixed feeling,
through the infirmity of the agent, may have influenced
the artist, whether poet or painter, there can be but one
feeling in the reader or spectator.
Indeed, so imperishable is this property of Truth, that
it seems to lose nothing of its power, even when causing itself to be reflected from things that in themselves
have, properly speaking, no truth. Of this we have
abundant examples in some of the Dutch pictures,
where the principal object is simply a dish of oysters or a pickled herring.  We  remember a picture of
this kind, consisting solely of these very objects, from
which we experienced a pleasure almost exquisite. And
we would here remark, that the appetite then was in no
way concerned. The pleasure, therefore, must have
been from the imitated truth. It is certainly a curious
question why this should be, while the things themselves,
that is, the actual objects, should produce no such effect.
And it seems to be because, in the latter case, there was
no truth involved. The real oysters, &c., were indeed
so far true as they were actual objects, but they did not
contain a truth in relation to any thing. Whereas, in
the pictured oysters, their relation to the actual was
shown and verified in the mutual resemblance.
If this be true, as we doubt not, we have at least
34 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
one evidence, where it might not be looked for, that
there is that in Truth which is satisfying of itself. But
a stronger testimony may still be found where, from
all apriori reasoning, we might expect, if not positive
pain, at least no pleasure; and that is, where we find
it united with human suffering, as in the deep scenes of
tragedy.  Now it cannot be doubted, that some of our
most  refined  pleasures are often  derived from  this
source, and from scenes that in nature we could n
look upon.  And why is this, but for the reason-assigned in the preceding instance of a stilU-?ie picture? the
only difference being, that the -latter is addressed to the
senses, and the former to the heart and intellect: which
difference, however, well accounts for their vast disparity
of effect. But may not these tragic pleasures have their
source in sympathy alone? W7e answer, No. For who
ever felt it in watching the progress of actual villany or
the betrayal of innocence, or in being an eyewitness of
murder?  Now, though we revolt at these and the like
atrocities in actual life, it would be both new and false
to assert that they have no attraction in Art.
Nor do we believe that this acknowledged interest can
well be traced to any other source than the one assumed;
namely, to the truth of relation. And in this capacity
does Truth stand to the Imagination, which is the proper medium through which the artist, whether poet or
painter, projects his scenes.
The seat of interest here, then, being in the imagination, it is precisely on that account, and because it cannot be brought home to self, that the pleasure ensues;
which is plainly, therefore, derived from its verisimilitude to the actual, and, though together with its appropriate excitement, yet without its imperative condition,
namely, its call of life on the living affections.
35 
LECTURES ON ART.
The proper word here is interest, not sympathy, for
sympathy with actual suffering, be the object good or
bad, is in its nature painful; an obvious reason why
so few in the more prosaic world have the virtue to
seek it.
But is it not the business of the artist to touch the
heart? True, - and it is his high privilege, as its liegelord, to sound its very depths; nay, from its lowest deep
to touch alike its loftiest breathing pinnacle. Yet he
may nct even approach it, except through the transforming atmosphere of the imagination, where alone the
saddest notes of woe, even the appalling shriek of despair, are softened, as it were, by the tempering dews of
this visionary region, ere they fall upon the heart.  Else
how could we stand the smothered moan of Desdemona, or the fiendish adjuration of Lady Macbeth, -
more frightful even than the after-deed of her husband,
- or look upon the agony of the wretched Judas, in
the terrible picture of Rembrandt, when he returns the
purchase of blood to the impenetrable Sanhedrim?
Ay, how could we ever stand these but for that ideal
panoply through which we feel only their modified
vibrations?
Let the imitation, or rather copy, be so close as to
trench on deception, the effect will be far different; for,
the condition of relation being thus virtually lost, the
copy becomes as the original, - circumscribed by its
own qualities, repulsive or attractive, as the case may
be. I remember a striking instance of this in a celebrated actress, whose copies of actual suffering were
so painfully accurate, that I was forced to turn away
from the scene, unable to endure it her scream of'agony in Belvidera seemed to ring in my ears for hours
after. Not so was it with the great Mrs. Siddons, who
36 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
moved not a step but in a poetic atmosphere, through
which the fiercest passions seermed rather to loom like
distant mountains when first descried at sea, -massive
and solid, yet resting on air.
It would appear, then, that there is something in truth,
though but seen in the dim shadow of relation, that enforces interest, - and, so it be without pain, at least
some degree of pleasure; which, however slight, is not
unimportant, as presenting an impassable barrier to the
mere animal. We must not, however, be understood
as claiming for this Relative Truth the power of exciting a pleasurable interest in all possible cases; there are
exceptions, as in the horrible, the loathsome, &c., which
under no condition can be otherwise than revolting. It
is enough for our purpose, to have shown that its effect
is in most cases similar to that we have ascribed to
Truth absolute.
But objections are the natural adversaries of every
adventurer: there is one in our path which we soon
descried at our first setting out. And we find it
especially opposed to the assertion respecting children;
namely, that between two things, where there is no
personal advantage to bias the decision, they will always
choose that which seems to them true, rather than the
other which appears false. To this is opposed the notorious fact of the remarkable propensity which children have to lying. This is readily admitted; but it
does not meet us, unless it can be shown that they have
not in the act of lying an eye to its reward, - setting
aside any outward advantage, -in the shape of selfcomplacent thought at their superior wit or ingenuity.
Now it is equally notorious, that such secret triumph
will often betray itself by a smile, or wink, or some
other sign from the chuckling urchin, which proves any
4
37 
LECTURES ON ART.
thing but that the lie was gratuitous. No, not even a
child can love a lie purely for its own sake; he would
else love it in another, which is against fact. Indeed, so
far from it, that, long before he can have had any notion
of what is meant by honor, the word liar becomes one
of his first and most opprobrious terms of reproach.
Look at any child's face when he tells his companion
he lies. We ask no more than that most logical expression; and, if it speak not of a natural abhorrence
only to be overcome by self-interest, there is no trust in
any thing. No. We cannot believe that man or child,
however depraved, could tell an unproductive, gratuitous lie.
Of the last and highest source of our pleasurable
emotions we need say little; since no one will question
that, if sought at all, it can only be for its own sake.
But it does not become us-at least in this place-to
eater on the subject of HIolintess; of that angelic state,
whose only manifestation is in the perfect unison with
the Divine Will. We may, however, consider it in the
next degree, as it is known, and as we believe often
realized, among men: wve mean Goodness.
We presume it is superfluous to define a good act;
for every one knows, or ought to know, that no act is
good in its true sense, which has any, the least, reference to the agent's self. Nor is it necessary to adduce
examples; our object being rather to show that the
recognition of goodness - and we beg that the word
be especially noted- must result, of necessity, in such
an emotion as shall partake of its own character, that
is, be entirely devoid of self-interest.
This will no doubt appear to many a startling position. But let it be observed, that we have not said it
will always be recognized. There are many reasons
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INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
why it should not be, and is not. We all know how
easy it is to turn away from what gives us no pleasure.
A long course of vice, together with the consciousness
that goodness has departed from ourselves, may make
it painful to look upon it. Nay, the contemplation of
it may become, on this account, so painful as to
amount to agony. But that Goodness can be hated
for its own sake we do not believe, except by a devil,
or some irredeemable incarnation of evil, if such there
be on this side the grave. But it is objected, that
bad men have sometimes a pleasure in Evil from which
they neither derive nor hope for any personal advantage,
that is, simply because it is evil.  But we deny the
fact. We deny that an unmixed pleasure, which is
purely abstracted from all reference to self, is in the
power of Evil. Should any man assert this even of
himself, he is not to be believed; he lies to his own
heart, -and this he may do without being conscious of
it.  But how can this be?  Nothing more easy: by a
simple dislocation of words; by the aid of that false
nomenclature which began with the first Fratricide, and
has continued to accumulate through successive ages,
till it reached its consummation, for every possible sin,
in the French Revolution. Indeed, there are few things
more easy; it is only to transfer to the evil the name
of its opposite. Some of us, perhaps, may have witnessed the savage exultation of some hardened wretch,
when the accidental spectator of an atrocious act.
But is such exultation pleasure? Is it at all akin to
what is recognized as pleasure even by this hardened
wretch?  Yet so he may call it.  But should we, could
we look into his heart? Should we not rather pause
for a time, from mere ignorance of the true vernacular
of sin. What he feels may thus be a mystery to all
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LECTURES ON ART.
but the reprobate; but it is not pleasure either in the
deed or the doer: for, as the law of Good  is Harmony, so is Discord that of Evil; and as sympathy
to Harmony, so is revulsion to Discord. And where
is hatred deepest and deadliest? Among the wicked.
Yet they often hate the good. True: but not goodness, not the good man's virtues; these they envy, and
hate him for possessing them. But more commonly
the object of dislike is first stripped of his virtues by detraction; the detractor then supplies their place by the
needful vices, -perhaps with his own; then, indeed,
he is ripe for hatred. When a sinful act is made personal, it is another affair; it then becomes a part of the
man; and he may then worship it with the idolatry of
a devil. But there is a vast gulf between his own
idol and that of another.
To prevent misapprehension, we would here observe,
that we do not affirm of either Good or Evil any irresistible power of enforcing love or exciting abhorrence,
having evidence to the contrary in the multitudes
about us; all we affirm is, that, when contemplated
abstractly, they cannot be viewed otherwise. Nor is
the fact of their inefficiency in many cases difficult of
solution, when it is remembered that the very condition
to their true effect is the complete absence of self; that
they must clearly be viewed ab extra; a hard, not to
say impracticable, condition to the very depraved; for
it may well be doubted if to such minds any act or
object having a moral nature can be presented without
some personal relation. It is not therefore surprising,
that, where the condition is so precluded, there should
be, not only no proper response to the law of Good or
Evil, but such frequent misapprehension of their true
character. Were it possible to see with the eyes of
40 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
others, this might not so often occur; for it need not
be remarked, that few things, if any, ever retain their
proper forms in the atmosphere of self-love; a fact that
will account for many obliquities besides the one in
question. To this we may add, that the existence of
a compulsory power in either Good or Evil could not,
in respect to man, consist with his free agency, - without which there could be no conscience; nor does it
follow, that, because men, with the free power of choice,
yet so often choose wrong, there is any natural indistinctness in the absolute character of Evil, which, as
before hinted, is sufficiently apparent to them when referring to others; in such cases the obliquitous choice
only shows, that, with the full force of right perception,
their interposing passions or interests have also the
power of giving their own color to every object having the least relation to themselves.
Admitting this personal modification, we may then
safely repeat our position, - that to hate Good or to
love Evil, solely for their own  sakes, is only possible
with the irredeemably wicked, in other words, with
devils.
We now proceed to the latter clause of our general
proposition.   And  here it may  be asked, on what
ground we assume one intuitive universal Principle as
the true source of all those emotions which have just
been discussed. To this we reply, On the ground of
their common agreement. As we shall here use the
words effect and emotion as convertible terms, we wish
it to be understood, that, when we apply the epithet
common or same to effect, we do so only in relation to
kind, and for the sake of brevity, instead of saying the
same class of effects; implying also in the word kind
the existence of many degrees, but no other difference.
4*
41 
LECTURES ON ART.
For instance, if a beautiful flower and a noble act
shall be found to excite a kindred emotion, however
slight from the one or deep from the other, they come
in effect under the same category. And this we are
forced to admit, however heterogeneous, since a common ground is necessarily predicated of a common result. How else, for instance, can we account for a
scene in nature, a bird, an animal, a human form, affecting us each in a similar way?  There is certainly
no similitude in the objects that compose a landscape,
and the form  of an animal and man; they have no
resemblance either in shape, or texture, or color, in
roughness, smoothness, or any other known quality;
while their several effects are so near akin, that we do
not stop to measure even the wide degrees by which
they are marked, but class them in a breath by some
common term. It is very plain that this singular property of assimilating to one what is so widely unlike
cannot proceed from any similar conformation, or quality, or attribute of mere being, that is, of any thing
essential to distinctive existence. There must needs,
then, be some common ground for their common effect.
For if they agree not in themselves one with the other,
it follows of necessity that the ground of their agreement must be in relation to something within our own
milds, since only there is this common effect known
as a fact.
We are now brought to the important question,
VWhere and what is this reconciling ground? Certainly
not in sensation, for that could only reflect their distinctive differences. Neither can it be in the reflective
faculties, since the effect in question, being co-instantaneous, is wholly independent of any process of reasoning; for we do not feel it because we understand,
42 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
but only because we are conscious of its presence.
Nay, it is because we neither do nor can understand
it, being therefore a matter aloof from all the powers of
reasoning, that its character is such as has been asserted, and, as such, universal.
Where, then, shall we search for this mysterious
ground but in the mind, since only there, as before
observed, is this common effect known as a fact? and
where in the mind but in some inherent Principle,
which is both intuitive and universal, since, in a greater or less degree, all men feel it without knowing why?
But since an inward Principle can, of necessity, have
only a potential existence, until called into action by
some outward object, it is also clear that any similar
effect, which shall then be recognized through it, from
any number of differing and distinct objects, can only
arise from some mutual relation between a something
in the objects and in the Principle supposed, as their
joint result and proper product.
And, since it would appear that we cannot avoid the
admission of some such Principle, having a reciprocal
relation to certain outward objects, to account for these
kindred emotions from so many distinct and heterogeneous sources, it remains only that we give it a name;
which has already been anticipated in the term Harmony.
The next question here is, In what consists this peculiar relation?  We have seen that it cannot be in any
thing that is essential to any condition of mere being
or existence; it must therefore consist in some undiscoverable condition indifferently applicable to the Physical, Intellectual, and Moral, yet only applicable in each
to certain kinds.
And this is all that we do or can know of it. But
43 
LECTURES ON ART.
of this we may be as certain as that we live and
breathe.
It is true that, for particular purposes, we  may
analyze certain combinations of sounds and colors and
forms, so as to ascertain their relative quantities or
collocation; and these facts (of which we shall hereafter have occasion to speak) may be of importance
both in Art and Science. Still, when thus obtained,
they will be no more than mere facts, on which we can
predicate nothing but that, when they are imitated,that is, when similar combinations of quantities, &c.,
are repeated in a work of art, - they will produce the
same effect. But why they should is a mystery which
the reflective faculties do not solve; and never can,
because it refers to a living Power that is above the
understanding. In the human figure, for instance, we
can give no reason why eight heads to the stature
please us better than six, or why three or twelve
heads seem to us monstrous.  If we say, in the latter
ease, because the head of the one is too small and of
the other too large, we give no reason; we only state
thefact of their disagreeable effect on us. And, if we
make the proportion of eight heads our rule, it is because of the fact of its being more pleasing to us than
any other; and, from the same feeling, we prefer those
statures which approach it the nearest. Suppose we
analyze a certain combination of sounds and colors,
so as to ascertain the exact relative quantities of the
one and the collocation of the other, and then compare them. What possible resemblance can the understanding perceive between these sounds and colors?
And yet a something within us responds to both in a
similar emotion. And so with a thousand things, nay,
with myriads of objects that have no other affinity but
44 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
with that mysterious harmony which began with our
being, which slept with our infancy, and which their
presence only seems to have awakened.  If we cannot
go back to our own childhood, we may see its illustration in those about us who are now emerging into that
unsophisticated state.  Look  at them in the fields,
among the birds and flowers; their happy faces speak
the harmony within them: the divine instrument,
which these have touched, gives them a joy which, perhaps, only childhood in its first fresh consciousness can
know. Yet what do they understand of musical quantities, or of the theory of colors?
And so with respect to Truth and Goodness; whose
preexisting Ideas, being in the living constituents of
an immortal spirit, need but the slightest breath of
some outward condition of the true and good, - a
simple problem, or a kind act, -to awake them, as it
were, from their unconscious sleep, and start them
for eternity.
We may venture to assert, that no10 philosopher, however ingenious, could communicate to a child the abstract idea of Right, had the latter nothing beyond or
above the understanding. He might, indeed, be taught,
like the inferior animals, -a dog, for instance, -that, if
he took certain forbidden things, he would be punished,
and thus do right through fear. Still he would desire
the forbidden thing, though belonging to another; nor
could he conceive why he should not appropriate to
himself, and thus allay his appetite, what was held by
another, could he do so undetected; nor attain to any
higher notion of right than that of the strongest. But
the child has something higher than the mere power of
apprehending consequences. The simplest exposition,
whether of right or wrong, even by an ignorant nurse,
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LECTURES ON ART.
is instantly responded to by something within him,
which, thus awakened, becomes to him a living voice
ever after; and the good and the true must thenceforth
answer its call, even though succeeding years would
fain overlay them with the suffocating crowds of evil
and falsehood.
We do not say that these eternal Ideas of Beauty,
Truth, and Goodness will, strictly speaking, always act.
Though indestructible, they may be banished for a time
by the perverted Will, and mockeries of the brain, like
the fume-born phantoms from the witches' caldron in
Macbeth, take their places, and assume their functions.
We have examples of this in every age, and perhaps in
none more startling than in the present.  But we mean
only that they cannot be forgotten: nay, they are but,
too often recalled with unwelcome distinctness. Could
we read the annals which must needs be scored on every heart, -could we look upon those of the aged reprobate, -who will doubt that their darkest passages are
those made visible by the distant gleams from these
angelic Forms, that, like the Three which stood before
the tent of Abraham, once looked upon his youth?
And we doubt not that the truest witness to the
common source of these inborn Ideas would readily be
acknowledged by all, could they return to it now with
their matured power of introspection, which is, at least,
one of the few advantages of advancing years. But,
though we cannot bring back youth, we may still recover much of its purer revelations of our nature from
what has been left in the memory. From the dim
present, then, we would appeal to that fresher time,
ere the young spirit had shrunk from the overbearing pride of the understanding, and confidently ask, if
the emotions we then felt from the Beautiful, the True,
46 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
and the Good, did not seem in some way to refer to a
common origin. And we would also ask, if it was then
frequent that the influence from one was singly felt,-if
it did not rather bring with it, however remotely, a sense
of something, though widely differing, yet still akin to
it. When we have basked in the beauty of a summer
sunset, was there nothing in the sky that spoke to the
soul of Truth and Goodness? And when the opening
intellect first received the truth of the great law of
gravitation, or felt itself mounting through the profound of space, to travel with the planets in their unerring rounds, did never then the kindred Ideas of
Goodness and Beauty chime in, as it were, with the
fabled music,- not fabled to the soul, -  which led you
on like one entranced?
And again, when, in the passive quiet of your moral
nature, so predisposed in youth to all things genial,
you have looked abroad on this marvellous, ever teeming Earth, - ever teeming alike for mind and body, -
and have felt upon you flow, as from ten thousand
springs of Goodness, Truth, and Beauty, ten thousand
streams of innocent enjoyment; did you not then
almost hear them shout in confluence, and almost see
them gushing upwards, as if they would prove their
unity, in one harmonious fountain?
But, though the preceding be admitted as all true in
respect to certain " gifted" individuals, it may yet be
denied that it is equally true with respect to all, in other
words, that the Principle assumed is an inherent constituent of the human being. To this we reply, that
universality does not necessarily imply equality.
The universality of a Principle does not imply everywhere equal energy or activity, or even the same mode
of manifestation, any more than do the essential Fac
47 
LECTURES ON ART.
ulties of the Understanding. Of this we have an analogous illustration in the faculty of Memory; which is
almost indefinitely diffirenced in different men, both in
degree and  mode.   In some, its greatest power  is
shown in the retention of thoughts, but not of words,
that is, not of the original words in which they were presented. Others possess it in a very remarkable degree
as to forms, places, &c., and but imperfectly for other
things; others, again, never forget names, dates, or figures, yet cannot repeat a conversation the day after it
took place; while some few have the doubtful happiness of forgetting nothing.  We  might go on with a
long list of the various modes and degrees in which
this faculty, so essential to the human being, is everywhere manifested. But this is sufficient for our purpose. In like manner is the Principle of Harmony
manifested; in one person as it relates to Form, in
another to Sound; so, too, may it vary as to the degrees
of truth and goodness. We say degrees; for we may
well doubt whether, even in the faculty of memory, its
apparent absence as to any one essential object is any
thing more than a feeble degree of activity: and the
doubt is strengthened by the fact, that in many seemingly hopeless cases it has been actually, as it were,
brought into birth. And we are still indisposed to admit its entire absence in any one particular for which it
was bestowed on man.   An imperfect developemrnent,
especially as relating to the intellectual and moral, we
know to depend, in no slight measure, on the will of
the subject. Nay, (with the exception of idiots,) it may
safely be affirmed, that no individual ever existed who
could not perceive the difference between what is true
and false, and right and wrong. We here, of course,
except those who have so ingeniously vnmade them
48 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
selves, in order to reconstruct their " humanity" after a
better fashion.  As to the "why"  of these differences,
we know nothing; it is one of those unfathomable
mysteries which to the finite mind must ever be
hidden.
Though it has been our purpose, throughout this dis course, to direct our inquiries mainly to the essential
Elements of the subject, it may not be amiss here to
take a brief notice of their collateral product in those
mixed modes from which we derive so large a portion
of our mental gratification: we allude to the various
combinations of the several Ideas, which have just been
examined, with each other as well as with their opposites.
To this prolific source may be traced much of that manycolored interest which we take in their various forms as
presented by the imagination, - in every thing, indeed,
which is true, or even partially true, to the great Principle of Harmony, both in nature and in art.  It is to
these mixed modes more especially, that we owe all
that mysterious interest which gives the illusion of life
to a work of fiction, and fills us with delight or melts
with woe, whether in the happiness or the suffering of
some imagined being, uniting goodness with beauty,
or virtue with plainness, or uncommon purity and intellect even with deformity; for even that may be
so overpowered in the prominent harmony of superior
intellect and moral worth, as to be virtually neutralized,
at least, to become unobtrusive as a discordant force.
Besides, it cannot be expected that complete harmony is
ever to be realized in our imperfect state; we should
else, perhaps, with such expectation, have no pleasures
of the kind we speak of: nor is this necessary, the imagination being always ready to supply deficiencies,
whenever the approximation is sufficientlv near to call
5
49 
LECTURES ON ART.
it forth. Nay, if the interest felt be nothing more than
mere curiosity, we still refer to this presiding Principle;
which is no less essential to a simple combination of
events, than to the higher demands of Form or Character. But its presence must be felt, however slightly.
Of this we have the evidence in many cases, and, perhaps, most conclusive where the partial harmony is felt
to verge on a powerful discord; or where the effort to
unite them produces that singular alternation of what
is both revolting and pleasing: as in the startling union
of evil passions with some noble quality, or with a
master intellect. And here we have a solution of that
paradoxical feeling of interest and abhorrence, which
we experience in such a character as King Richard.
And may it not be that we are permitted this interest for a deeper purpose than we are wont to suppose; because Sin is best seen in the light of Virtue,and then most fearfully when she holds the torch to
herself? Be this as it may, with pure, unintellectual,
brutal evil it is very different. We cannot look upon
it undismayed: we take no interest in it, nor can we.
In Richard there is scarce a glimmer of his better nature; yet we do inot despise him, for his intellect and
courage command our respect. But the fiend Iago,
- who ever followed him through the weaving of
his spider-like web, without perpetual recurrence to its
venomous source, - his devilish heart? Even the intellect he shows seems actually animnalized, and we
shudder at its subtlety, as at the cunning of a reptile.
Whatever interest may have been imputed to him
should be placed to the account of his hapless victim;
tb the first striving with distrust of a generous nature;
to the vague sense of misery, then its gradual develope ment, then the final overthrow of absolute faith; and,
50 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
last of all, to the throes of agony of the noble Moor,
as he writhes and gasps in his accursed toils.
To these mixed modes may be added another
branch, which we shall term the class of Imputed Attributes. In this class are concerned all those natural
objects with which we connect (not by individual association, but by a general law of the mind) certain
moral or intellectual attributes; which are not, indeed,
supposed to exist in the objects themselves, but which,
by some unknown affinity, they awaken or occasion in
us, and which we, in our turn, impute to them. However this be, there are multitudes of objects in the inanimate world, which we cannot contemplate without associating with them many of the characteristics which
we ascribe to the human being; and the ideas so
awakened we involuntarily express by the ascription
of such significant epithets as stately, majestic, grand,
and so on.  It is so with us, when we call some tall
forest stately, or qualify as majestic some broad and
slowly-wvinding river, or some vast, yet unbroken waterfall, or some solitary, gigantic pine, seeming to disdain
the earth, and to hold of right its eternal communion
with air; or when to the smooth and far-reaching expanse of our inland waters, with their bordering and
receding mountains, as they seem to march from the
shores, in the pomp of their dark draperies of wood and
mist, we apply the terms grand and magnificent: and so
onward to an endless succession of objects, imputing,
as it were, our own nature, and lending our sympathies,
till the headlong rush of some mighty cataract suddenly thunders upon us.  But how is it then?  In the
twinkling of an eye, the outflowing sympathies ebb
back upon the heart; the whole mind seems severed
from  earth, and the  awful feeling to suspend  the
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LECTURES ON ART.
breath;-  there is nothing human  to which  we can
liken it.   And here begins another kind of emotion,
which we call Sublime.
We are not aware that this particular class of objects
has hitherto been noticed, at least as holding a distinct position. And, if we may be allowed to supply
the omission, we should assign to it the intermediate
place between the Beautiful and the Sublime. Indeed,
there seems to be no other station so peculiarly proper;
inasmuch as they would thus form, in a consecutive
series, a regular ascent from the sensible material to
the invisible spiritual: hence naturally uniting into one
harmonious whole every possible emotion of our higher
nature.
In the preceding discussion, we have considered the
outward world only in its immediate relation to Man,
and the Human Being as the predetermined centre to
which it was designed to converge. As the subject,
however, of what are called the sublime emotions, he
holds a different position; for the centre here is not
himself, nor, indeed, can he approach it within conceivable distance: yet still he is drawn to it, though
baffled for ever. Now the question is, Where, and in
what bias, is this mysterious  attraction?  It must
needs be in something having a clear affinity with
us, or we could not feel it.  But the attraction is
also both pure and pleasurable; and it has just been
shown, that we have in ourselves but one principle by
which to recognize any corresponding emotion, - namely, the principle of Harmony. May we not then infer
a similar Principle without us, an Infinite Harmony, to
which our own is attracted? and may we not further,
- if we may so speak without irreverence, - suppose
our own to have emanated thence when "man became
52 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
a living soul"? And though this relation may not be
consciously acknowledged in every instance, or even in
one, by the mass of men, does it therefore follow that
it does not exist?  How many things act upon us of
which we have no knowledge? If we find, as in the
case of the Beautiful, the same, or a similar, effect to
follow from a great variety of objects which have no
resemblance or agreement with one another, is it not a
necessary inference, that for their common effect they
must all refer to something without and distinct from
themselves? Now in the case of the Sublime, the
something referred to is not in man: for the emotion
excited has an outward tendency; the mind cannot
contain it; and the effort to follow it towards its mysterious object, if long continued, becomes, in the excess
of interest, positively painful.
Could any finite object account for this? But, supposing the Infinite, we have an adequate cause. If
these emotions, then, from whatever object or circumstance, be to prompt the mind beyond its prescribed
limits, whether carrying it back to the primitive past,
the incomprehensible beginning, or sending it into the
future, to the unknown end, the ever-present Idea of
the mighty Author of all these mysteries must still be
implied, though we think not of it. It is this Idea, or
rather its influence, whether we be conscious of it or
not, which we hold to be the source of every sublime
emotion. To make our meaning plainer, we should
say, that that which has the power of possessing the
mind, to the exclusion, for the time, of all other
thought, and which presents no comprehensible sense
of a whole, though still impressing us with a full apprehension of such as a reality,- in other words,
which cannot be circumscribed by the forms of the un                 5*
53 
LECTURES ON ART.
derstanding while it strains them to the utmost,-  that
we should term a sublime object. But whether this
effect be occasioned directly by the object itself, or be
indirectly suggested by its relations to some other
object, its unknown cause, it matters not; since the
apparent power of calling forth the emotion, by whatever means, is, quoad ourselves, its sublime condition.
Hence, if a minute insect, an ant, for instance, through
its marvellous instinct, lift the mind of the amazed
spectator to the still more inscrutable Creator, it must
possess, as to him, the same power. This is, indeed, an
extreme case, and may be objected to as depending on
the individual mind; on a mind prepared by cultivation and previous reflection for the effect in question.
But to this it may be replied, that some degree of cultivation, or, more properly speaking, of developement
by the exercise of its reflective faculties, is obviously
essential ere the mind can attain to mature growth, -
we might almost say to its natural state, since nothing can be said to have attained its true nature until
all its capacities are at least called into birth.   No
one, for example, would refer to the savages of Australia for a true specimen of what was proper or natural to the human mind; we should rather seek it, if
such were the alternative, in a civilized child of five years
old. Be this as it may, it will not be denied that ignorance, brutality, and many other deteriorating causes,
do practically incapacitate thousands for even an approximation, not only to this, but to many of the inferior emotions, the character of which is purely mental.
And this, we think, is quite sufficient to neutralize the
objection, if not, indeed, to justify the application of the
term to all cases where the immediate effect, whether directly or indirectly, is such as has been described. But,
54 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
to reduce this to a common-sense view, it is only saying,- what no one will deny,-  that a man of education and refinement has not only more, but higher,
pleasures of the mind than a mere clown.
But though the position here advanced must necessarily exclude many objects which have hitherto,
though, as we think, improperly, been classed with the
sublime, it will still leave enough, and more than
enough, for the utmost exercise of our limited powers;
inasmuch as, in addition to the multitude of objects in
the material world, not only the actions, passions, and
thoughts of men, but whatever concerns the human
being, that in any way - by  a hint merely -  leads
the mind, though indirectly, to the Infinite attributes, -
all come of right within the ground assumed.
It will be borne in mind, that the conscious presence
of the Infinite Idea is not only not insisted on, but expressly admitted to be, in most cases, unthought of; it
is also admitted, that a sublime effect is often powerfully felt in many instances where this Idea could not
truly be predicated of the apparent object. In such
cases, however, some kind of resemblance, or, at least,
a seeming analogy to an infinite attribute, is nevertheless essential. It must appear to us, for the time, either
limitless, indefinite, or in some other way beyond the
grasp of the mind: and, whatever an object may seem
to be, it must needs in effect be to us even that which
it seems. Nor does this transfer the emotion to a different source; for the Infinite Idea, or something analogous, being thus imputed, is in reality its true cause.
It is still the unattainable, the ever-stimulating, yet
ever-eluding, in the character of the sublime object, that
gives to it both its term and its effect. And whence
the conception of this mysterious character, but from its
55 
LECTURES ON ART.
mysterious prototype, the Idea of the Infinite? Neither does it matter, as we have said, whether aetual
or supposed; for what the imagination cannot master
will master the imagination.  Take, for instance, but
a single passion, and clothe it with this character; in
the same instant it becomes sublime. So, too, with a
single thought. In the Mosaic words so often quoted,
"Let there be light, and there was light," we have the
sublime of thought, of mere naked thought; but what
could more awe the mind with the power of God? Of
like nature is the conjecture of Newton, when he imagined stars so distant from the sun that their coeval
light has not yet reached us. Let us endeavour for one
moment to conceive of this; does not the soul seem to
dilate within us, and the body to shrink as to a grain
of dust?  "Woe  is me! unclean, unclean!" said the
holy Prophet, when the Infinite Holiness stood before
him. Could a more terrible distance be measured, than
by these fearful words, between God and man?
If it be objected to this view, that many eases occur,
having the same conditions with those assumed in our
general proposition, which are yet exclusively painful,
unmitigated even by a transient moment of pleasure,in Despair, for instance,-  as who  can limit it? - to
this we reply, that no emotion having its sole, or circle
of existence in the individual mind itself, can be to
that mind other than a subject. A man in despair, or
under any mode of extreme suffering of like nature,
may, indeed, if all interfering sympathy have been removed by time or after-description, be to another a sublime object, - at least in one of those suggestive forms
just noticed; but not to himself.  The source of the
sublime- as all along implied- is essentially ab extra.
The human mind is not its centre, nor can it be realized except by a contemplative act.
56 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
Besides, as a mental pleasure,- indeed the highest
known,- to be recognized as such, it must needs be
accompanied by the same relative character by which
is tested every other pleasure coming under that denomination; namely, by the entire absence of self, that
is, by the same freedom from all personal consideration
which has been shown to characterize the true effect of
the Three leading Ideas already considered. But if to
this also it be further objected, that in certain particular
cases, as of personal danger,- from which the sublime
emotion has often been experienced, -some personal
consideration must necessarily be involved, as without
a sense of security we could not enjoy it; we answer,
that, if it be meant only that the mind should be in
such a state as to enable us to receive an uniembarrassed impression, it seems to us superfluous,- an obvious truism placed in opposition to an absurd impossibility. We needed not to be told, that no pleasurable
emotion is likely to occur while we are unmanned by
fear. The same might be said, also, in respect to the
Beautiful: for who was ever alive to it under a paroxysm of terror, or pain of any kind? A terrified person is in any thing but a fit state for such emotion.
He may indeed cfterwards, when his fear is passed off,
contemplate the circumstance that occasioned it with
a different feeling; but the object of his dismay is
then projected, as it were, completely from himself; and
he feels the sublimity in a contemplative state: he can
feel it in no other. Nor is that state incompatible with
a consciousness of peril, though it can never be with
personal terror. And, if it is meant that we should
have a positive, present conviction that we are in no
danger, this we must deny, as we find it contradicted in innumerable instances. So far, indeed, is a sense
57 
LECTURES ON ART.
of security from being essential to the condition of a
sublime emotion, that the sense of danger, on the contrary, is one of its most exciting accompaniments.
There is a fascination in danger which some persons
neither can nor would resist; which seems, as it were,
to disenthral them of self;- as if the mysterious Infinite were actually drawing them on by an invisible
power.
Was it mere scientific curiosity that cost the elder
Pliny his life? Might it not have been rather this sublime fascination? But we have repeated examples of
it in our own time. Many who will read this may
have been in a storm at sea. Did they never feel its
sublimity while they knew their danger? We will
answer for ourselves; for we have been in one, when
the dismasted vessels that surrounded us permitted no
mistake as to our peril; it was strongly felt, but still
stronger was the sublime emotion in the awful scene.
The crater of Vesuvius is even now, perhaps for the
thousandth time, reflecting from its lake of fire some
ghastly face, with indrawn breath and hair bristling,
bent, as by fate, over its sulphurous brink.
Let us turn to Mont Blanc, that mighty pyramid of
ice, in whose shadow might repose all the tombs of the
Pharaohs. It rises before the traveller like the accumulating mausoleum of Europe: perhaps he looks upon
it as his own before his natural time; yet he cannot
away from it. A terrible charm hurries him over frightful chasms, whose blue depths seem like those of the
ocean; he cuts his way up a polished precipice, shining
like steel, - as elusive to the touch; he creeps slowly
and warily around and beneath huge cliffs of snow;
now he looks up, and sees their brows fretted by the
percolating waters like a Gothic ceiling, and he fears
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INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
even to whisper, lest an audible breath should awaken
the avalanche: and thus he climbs and climbs, till the
dizzy summit fills up his measure of fearful ecstasy.
Now, though cases may occur where the emotion in
question is attended with a sense of security, as in the
reading or hearing the description of an earthquake,
such as that of 1768 in Lisbon, while we are safely
housed and by a comfortable fire, it does not therefore follow, that this consciousness of safety is its
essential condition. It is merely an accidental circumstance. It cannot, therefore, apply, either as a rule or
an objection.   Besides, even if supported by fact, we
might well dismiss it on the ground of irrelevancy,
since a sense of personal safety cannot be placed in opposition to and as inconsistent with a disinterested or
unselfish state; which is that claimed for the emotion
as its true condition. If there be not, then, a sounder
objection, we may safely admit the characteristic in
question; for the reception of which we have, on the
other hand, the weight of experience,- at least negatively, since, strictly speaking, we cannot experience the
absence of any thing.
But though, according to our theory, there are many
things now called sublime that would properly come
under a different classification, such as many objects
of Art, many sentiments, and many actions, which
are strictly human, as well in their end as in their origin; it is not to be inferred that the exclusion of any
work of man is because of its apparent origin, but of
its end, the end only being the determining point, as
referring to its Idea. Now, if the Idea referred to be of
the Infinite, which is out of his nature, it cannot strictly be said to originate with man, - that is, absolutely;
but it is rather, as it were, a reflected form of it from
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LECTURES ON ART.
the Maker of his mind. If we are led to such an Idea,
then, by any work of imagination, a poem, a picture, a
statue, or a building, it is as truly sublime as any natural object. This, it appears to us, is the sole mystery,
without which neither sound, nor color, nor form, nor
magnitude, is a true correlative to the unseen cause.
And here, as with Beauty, though the test of that be
within us, is the inodus operaatdi equally baffling to the
scrutiny of the understanding. We feel ourselves, as
it were, lifted from the earth, and look upon the outwvard objects that have so affected us, yet learn not
how; and the mystery deepens as we compare them
with other objects from which have followed the same
effects, and find no resemblance. For instance; the roar
of the ocean, and the intricate unity of a Gothic cathedral, whose beginning and end are alike intangible,
while its climbing tower seems visibly even to rise to
the Idea which it strives to embody,- these have nothing in common,- hardly two things could be named
that are more unlike; yet in relation to man they have
but one end: for who can hear the ocean when breathing in wrath, and limit it in his mind, though he think
not of Him who gives it voice? or ascend that spire
without feeling his faculties vanish, as it were with its
vanishing point, into the abyss of space? If there be
a difference in the effect from these and other objects,
it is only in the intensity, the degree of impetus given;
as between that from the sudden explosion of a volcano
and from the slow and heavy movement of a rising
thunder-cloud; its character and its office are the same,
-in its awful harmony to connect the created with its
Infinite Cause.
But let us compare this effect with that from Beauty.
Would the Parthenon, for instance, with its beauti
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INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
ful forms, - made still more beautiful under its native
sky,- seeming almost endued with the breath of life,
as if its conscious purple were a living suffusion
brought forth in sympathy by the enamoured blushes
of a Grecian sunset;- would this beautiful object even
then elevate the soul above its own roof? No: we
should be filled with a pure delight, - but with no
longing to rise still higher. It would satisfy us; which
the sublime does not; for the feeling is too vast to be
circumscribed by human content.
On the supernatural it is needless to enlarge; for, in
whatever form the beings of the invisible world are
supposed to visit us, they are immediately connected
in the mind with the unknown Infinite; whether the
faith be in the heart or in the imagination; whether they
bubble up from the earth, like the Witches in Macbeth,
taking shape at will, or self-dissolving into air, and no
less marvellous, foreknowing thoughts ere formed in
man; or like the Ghost in Hamlet, an unsubstantial
shadow, having the functions of life, motion, will, and
speech; a fearful mystery invests them with a spell not
to be withstood; the bewildered imagination follows
like a child, leaving the finite world for one unknown,
till it aches in darkness, trackless, endless.
Perhaps, as being nearest in stationi to the unsearchable Author of all things, the highest example of this
would be found in the Angelic Nature.  If it be objected, that the poets have not always so represented it,
it rests with them to show cause why they have not.
Milton, no doubt, could have assigned a sufficient reason in the time chosen for his poem, - that of the creation of the first man, when his intercourse with the
highest order of created beings was not only essential
to the plan of the poem, but according with the express
6
61 
LECTURES ON ART.
will of the Creator: hence, he might have considered
it no violation of the then relation between man and
angels to assign even the epithet affable to the archangel Raphael; for man was then sinless, and in all
points save knowledge a fit object of regard, and certainly a fit pupil to his heavenly instructor. But, suppose the poet, throughout his work, (as in the process of
his story he was forced to do near the end,) - suppose
he had chosen, assuming the philosopher, to assign to
Adam the altered relation of one of his fallen posterity,
how could he have endured a holy spiritual presence?
To be consistent, Adam must have been dumb with
awe, incapable of holding converse such as is described. Between sinless man and his sinful progeny, the
distance is immeasurable.  And so, too, must be the effect on the latter, in such a presence; and for this conclusion we have the authority of Scripture, in the dismay
of the soldiers at the Saviour's sepulchre, on which
more directly. If there be no like effect attending the
other angelic visits recorded in Scripture, such as those
to Lot and Abraham, the reason is obvious in the
special mission to those individuals, who were doubtless
divinely prepared for their reception; for it is reasonable
to suppose the mission had else been useless. But
with the Roman soldiers, where there was no such
qualifying circumstance, the case was different; indeed,
it was in striking contrast with that of the two Marys,
who, though struck with awe, yet being led there, as
witnesses, by the Spirit, were not so overpowered.
And here, as the Idea of Angels is universally associated with every perfection of form, may naturally occur the question so often agitated,-namely, whether
Beauty and Sublimity are, under any circumstances,
compatible. To us it seems of easy solution. For
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INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
we see no reason why Beauty, as the condition of a
subordinated object or component part, may not incidentally enter into the Sublime, as well as a thousand
other conditions of opposite characters, which pertain
to the multifarious assimilants that often form its other
components.
When Beauty is not made essential, but enters as a
mere contingent, its admission or rejection is a matter
of indifference. In an angel, for instance, beauty is the
condition of his mere form; but the angel has also an
intellectual and moral or spiritual nature, which is essentially paramount: the former being but the condition, so to speak, of his visibility, the latter, his very
life,- an Essence next to the inconceivable Giver of
life.
Could we stand in the presence of one of these holy
beings, (if to stand were possible,) what of the Sublime in this lower world would so shake us?  Though
his beauty were such as never mortal dreamed of, it
would be as nothing, - swallowed up as darkness, - in
the awful, spiritual brightness of the messenger of God.
Even as the soldiers in Scripture, at the sepulchre of
the Saviour, we should fall before him, -we should
"become," like them, "as dead men."
But though Milton does not unveil the "face like
lightning"; and though the angel Raphael is made
to hold converse with man, and the "severe in youthful
beauty" gives even the individual impress to Zephon,
and Michael and Abdiel are set apart in their prowess;
there is not one he names that does not breathe of
Heaven, that is not encompassed with the glory of the
Infinite. And why the reader is not overwhelmed in
their supposed presence is because he is a beholder
through Adam,- through him also a listener; but when
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LECTURES ON ART.
ever he is made, by the poet's spell, to forget Adam,
and to see, as it were in his own person, the embattled
hosts * * * * *
If we dwell upon Form alone, though it should be of
surpassing beauty, the idea would not rise above that
of man, for this is conceivable of man: but the moment the angelic nature is touched, we have the higher
ideas of supernal intelligence and perfect holiness, to
which all the charms and graces of mere form immediately become subordinate, and, though the beauty remain, its agency is comparatively negative under the
overpowering transcendence of a celestial spirit.
As we have already seen that the Beautiful is limited to no particular form, but possesses its power in
some mysterious condition, which is applicable to many
distinct objects; in like manner does the Sublime include within its sphere, and subdue to its condition, an
indefinite variety of objects, with their distinctive conditions; and among them we find that of the Beautiful,
as well as, to a certain degree, its reverse, so that, though
we may truly recognize their coexistence in the same
object, it is not possible that their effect upon us should
be otherwise than unequal, and that the higher law
should not subordinate the lower. We do not deny
that the Beautiful may, so to speak, mitigate the awful
intensity of the Sublime; but it cannot change its character, much less impart its own; the one will still be
awful, the other, of itself, never.
When  at Rome, we once asked a foreigner, who
seemed to be talking somewhat vaguely on the subject,
what he understood by the Sublime. His answer was,
"Le plus beau"; making it only a matter of degree.
Now let us only imagine (if we can) a beautiful earthquake, or a beautiful hurricane. And yet the foreign
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INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
er is not alone in this.  D'Azzara, the biographer of
Mengs, speaking of Beauty, talks of "this sublime
quality," and in another place, for certain reasons assigned, he says, "The grand style is beautiful."  Nay,
many writers, otherwise of high authority, seem to have
taken the same view; while others who  could have
had no such notion, having used the words Beauty
and the Beautiful in an allegorical or metaphorical
sense, have sometimes been misinterpreted literally.
Hence Winckelmann reproaches Michael Angelo for his
continual talk about Beauty, when he showed nothing
of it in his works. But it is very evident that the Belta
and Bellezza of Michael Angelo were never used by him
in a literal sense, nor intended to be so understood by
others: he adopted the terms solely to express abstract
Perfection, which he allegorized as the mistress of his
mind, to whose exclusive worship his whole life was
devoted. Whether it was the most appropriate term
he could have chosen, we shall not inquire. It is certain, however, that the literal adoption of it by subsequent writers has been the cause of much confusion, as
well as vagueness.
For ourselves, we are quite at a loss to imagine how
a notion so obviously groundless has ever had a single
supporter; for, if a distinct effect implies a distinct
cause, we do not see why distinct terms should not be
employed to express the difference, or how the legitimate term for one can in any way be applied to signify
a particular degree of the other. Like the two Dromios, they sometimes require a conjurer to tell which
is which.   If only Perfection, which is a generic term
implying the summit of all things, be meant, there is
surely nothing to be gained (if we except intended obscurity) by substituting a specific term which is limited
6*
65 
LECTURES ON ART.
to a few. We speak not here of allegorical or metaphorical propriety, which is not now the question,
but of the literal and didactic; and we may add, that
we have never known but one result from this arbitrary
union, - which is, to procreate words.
In further illustration of our position, it may be
well here to notice one mistaken source of the Sublime,
which seems to have been sometimes resorted to, both in
poems and pictures; namely, in the sympathy excited
by excruciating bodily suffering. Suppose a man on
the rack to be placed before us, - perhaps some miserable victim of the Inquisition; the cracking of his joints
is made frightfully audible; his calamitous "Ah!" goes
to our marrow; then the cruel precision of the mechanical familiar, as he lays bare to the sight his whole
anatomy of horrors. And suppose, too, the executioner
compelled to his task,- consequently an irresponsible
agent, whom we cannot curse; and, finally, that these
two objects compose the whole scene.   What could
we feel but an agony even like that of the sufferer, the
only difference being that one is physical, the other
mental? And this is all that mere sympathy has any
power to effect; it has led us to its extreme point,our flesh creeps, and we turn away with almost bodily
sickness. But let another actor be added to the drama
in the presiding Inquisitor, the cool methodizer of this
process of torture; in an instant the scene is changed,
and, strange to say, our feelings become less painful, —
nay, we feel a momentary interest, - from an instant
revulsion of our moral nature: we are lost in wonder
at the excess of human wickedness, and the hateful
wonder, as if partaking of the infinite, now distends
the faculties to their utmost tension; for who can set
bounds to passion when it seizes the whole soul? It is
66 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
as the soul itself, without form or limit. We may not
think even of the after judgment; we become ourselves
justice, and we award a hatred commensurate with the
sin, so indefinite and monstrous that we stand aghast
at our own judgment.
W7ly this extreme tension of the mind, when thus
outwardly occasioned, should create in us an interest,
we know not; but such is the fact, and we are not only
content to endure it for a time, but even crave it, and
give to the feeling the epithet sublime.
We do not deny that much bodily suffering may be
admitted with effect as a subordinate agent, when, as
in the example last added, it is made to serve as a
necessary expositor of moral deformity. Then, indeed,
in the hands of a great artist, it becomes one of the
most powerful auxiliaries to a sublime end. All that
we contend for is that sympathy alone is insufficient as
a cause of sublimity.
There are yet other sources of the false sublime, (if
we may so call it,) which are sometimes resorted to also
by poets and painters; such as the horrible, the loathsome, the hideous, and the monstrous: these form the
impassable boundaries to the true Sublime. Indeed,
there appears to be in almost every emotion a certain
point beyond which we cannot pass without recoiling,-as if we instinctively shrunk from what is forbidden to our nature.
It would seem, then, that, in relation to man, Beauty
is the extreme point, or last summit, of the natural world,
since it is in that that we recognize the highest emotion
of which we are susceptible from the purely physical. If
we ascend thence into the moral, we shall find its influence diminish in the same ratio with our upward progress. In the continuous chain of creation of which it
67 
LECTURES ON ART.
forms a part, the link above it where the moral modification begins seems scarcely changed, yet the difference,
though slight, demands another name, and the nomenclator within us calls it Elegance; in the next connecting link, the moral adjunct becomes more predominant,
and we call it Majesty; in the next, the physical becomes
still fainter, and we call the union Grandeur; in the next,
it seems almost to vanish, and a new form rises before
us, so mysterious, so undefined and elusive to the senses,
that we turn, as if for its more distinct image, within
ourselves, and there, with wonder, amazement, awe, we
see it filling, distending, stretching every faculty, till,
like the Giant of Otranto, it seems almost to burst the
imagination: under this strange confluence of opposite
emotions, this terrible pleasure, we call the awful form
Sublimity. This was the still, small voice that shook
the Prophet on Horeb; - though small to his ear, it was
more than his imagination could contain; he could not
hear it again and live.
It is not to be supposed that we have enumerated all
the forms of gradation between the Beautiful and the
Sublime; such was not our purpose; it is sufficient to
have noted the most prominent, leaving the intermediate modifications to be supplied (as they can readily
be) by the reader. If we descend from the Beautiful,
we shall pass in like manner through an equal variety of forms gradually modified by the grosser material
influences, as the Handsome, the Pretty, the Comely,
the Plain, &c., till we fall to the Ugly.
There ends the chain of pleasurable excitement; but
not the chain of Forms; which, taking now as if a literal curve, again bends upward, till, meeting the descending extreme of the moral, it seems to complete
the mighty circle. And in this dark segment will be
68 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
found the startling union of deepening discords,- still
deepening, as it rises from the Ugly to the Loathsome,
the Horrible, the Frightful,* the Appalling.
As we follow the chain through this last region of
disease, misery, and sin, of embodied Discord, and feel,
as we must, in the mutilated affinities of its revolting
forms, their fearful relation to this fair, harmonious
creation, - how does the awful fact, in these its
breathing fragments, speak to us of a fallen world!
As the living centre of this stupendous circle stands
the Soul of Man; the conscious Reality, to which the
vast inclosure is but the symbol.  How vast, then, his
being! If space could measure it, the remotest star
would fall within its limits. Well, then, may he tremble to essay it even in thought; for where must it carry him, - that winged messenger, fleeter than light?
Where but to the confines of the Infinite; even to the
presence of the unutterable Life, on which nothing
finite can look and live?
Finally, we shall conclude our Discourse with a few
words on the master Principle, which  we have supposed to be, by the will of the Creator, the realizing
life to all things fair and true and good: and more
especially would we revert to its spiritual purity, emphatically manifested through all its manifold operations,- so impossible of alliance with any thing sordid,
or false, or wicked, - so unapprehensible, even, except
for its own most sinless sake. Indeed, we cannot look
upon it as other than the universal and eternal witness
of God's goodness and love, to draw man to himself,
and to testify to the meanest, most obliquitous mind, -
at least once in life, be it though in childhood, - that
there is such a thing as good without self.
* The Frightful is not the Terril)le, though often confounded with it.
69 
LECTURES ON ART.
It will be remembered, that, in all the various examples adduced, in which we have endeavoured to illustrate
the operation of Harmony, there was but one character to
all its effects, whatever the difference in the objects that
occasioned them; that it was ever untinged with any
personal taint: and we concluded thence its supernal
source. We may now advance another evidence still
more conclusive of its spiritual origin, namely, in the
fact, that it cannot be realized in the Human Being
quoad himself. With the fullest consciousness of the
possession of this principle, and with the power to
realize it in other objects, he has still no power in relation to himself, - that is, to become the object to himself.
Now, as the condition of Harmony, so far as we can
know it through its effect, is that of impletion, where
nothing can be added or taken away, it is evident that
such a condition can never be realized by the mind in
itself. And yet the desire to this end is as evidently
implied in that incessant, yet unsatisfying activity,
which, under all circumstances, is an imperative, universal law of our nature.
It might seem needless to enlarge on what must be
generally felt as an obvious truth; still, it may not be
amiss to offer a few remarks, by way of bringing it,
though a truism, more distinctly before us. In all ages
the majority of mankind have been more or less compelled to some kind of exertion for their mere subsistence. Like all compulsion, this has no doubt been considered a hardship. Yet we never find, when by their
own industry, or any fortunate circumstance, they have
been relieved from this exigency, that any one individual has been contented with doing nothing. Some, indeed, before their liberation, have conceived of idleness
70 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
as a kind of synonyme with happiness; but a short
experience has never failed to prove it no less remote
from that desirable state. The most offensive employments, for the want of a better, have often been resumed, to relieve the mind from the intolerable load of nothin5, -the heaviest of all weights, - as it needs must
be to an immortal spirit: for the mind cannot stop, except it be in a mad-house; there, indeed, it may rest,
or rather stagnate, on one thought, - its little circle,
perhaps of misery. From the very moment of consciousness, the active Principle begins to busy itself
with the things about it: it shows itself in the infant,
stretching its little hands towards the candle; in the
schoolboy, filling up, if alone, his play-hour with the
mimic toils of after age; and so on, through every
stage and condition of life; from the wealthy spendthrift, beggaring himself at the gaming-table for employment, to the poor prisoner in the Bastile, who, for
the want of something to occupy his thoughts, overcame
the antipathy of his nature, and found his companion in
a spider. Nay, were there need, we might draw out the
catalogue till it darkened with suicide. But enough has
been said to show, that, aside from guilt, a more terrible
fiend has hardly been imagined than the little word
Nothing, when embodied and realized as the master of
the mind. And well for the world that it is so; since
to this wise law of our nature, to say nothing of conveniences, we owe the endless sources of innocent enjoyment with which the industry and ingenuity of man
have supplied us.
But the wisdom of the law in question is not merely
that it is a preventive to the mind preying on itself;
we see in it a higher purpose, - no less than what involves the developement of the human being; and, if we
71 
LECTURES ON ART.
look to its final bearing, it is of the deepest import. It
might seem at first a paradox, that, the natural condition
of the mind being averse to inactivity, it should still
have so strong a desire for rest; but a little reflection
will show that this involves no real contradiction. The
mind only mistakes the name of its object, neither rest
nor action being its real aim; for in a state of rest it
desires action, and in a state of action, rest.   Now all
action supposes a purpose, which purpose can consist
of but one of two things; either the attainment of
some immediate object as its completion, or the causing of one or more future acts, that shall follow as a
consequence. But whether the action terminates in an
immediate object, or serves as the procreating cause of
an indefinite series of acts, it must have some ultimate
object in which it ends, - or is to end. Even supposing such a series of acts to be continued through a
whole life, and yet remain incomplete, it would not
alter the case. It is well known that many such series
have employed the minds of mathematicians and astronomers to their last hour; nay, that those acts have
been taken up by others, and continued through successive generations: still, whether the point be arrived
at or no, there must have been an end in contemplation.
Now no one can believe that, in similar cases, any
man would voluntarily devote all his days to the adding link after link to an endless chain, for the mnere
pleasure of labor. It is true he may be aware of the
wholesomeness of such labor as one of the means of
cheerfulness; but, if he have no further aim, his being
aware of this result makes an equable flow of spirits
a positive object.   Without hope, uncompelled labor
is an impossibility; and hope implies an object. Nor
would the veriest idler, who passes a whole day in
72 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.
whittling a stick, if he could be brought to look into
himself, deny it. So far from having no object, he
would and must acknowledge that he was in fact hoping to relieve himself of an oppressive portion of time
by whittling away its minutes and hours. Here we
have an extreme instance of that which constitutes the
real business of life, from the most idle to the most industrious; namely, to attain to a satisfying state.
But no one will assert that such a state was ever a
consequence of the attainment of any object, however
exalted.   And why?   Because the motive of action
is left behind, and we have nothing before us.
Something to desire, something to look forward to,
we must have, or we perish,- even of suicidal rest. If
we find it not here in the world about us, it must be
sought for in another; to which, as we conceive, that
secret ruler of the soul, the inscrutable, ever-present
spirit of Harmony, for ever points. Nor is it essential
that the thought of harmony should even cross the
mind; for a want may be felt without any distinct consciousness of the form of that which is desired. And,
for the most part, it is only in this negative way that its
influence is acknowledged. But this is sufficient to
account for the universal longing, whether definite or
indefinite, and the consequent universal disappointment.
We have said that man cannot to himself become
the object of Harmony, - that is, find its proper correlative in himself; and we have seen that, in his present
state, the position is true.  How is it, then, in the world
of spirit? Who can answer? And yet, perhaps, - if
without irreverence we might hazard the conjecture, -
as a finite creature, having no centre in himself on
which to revolve, may it not be that his true correlative
7
73 
,LECTURES ON ART.
will there be revealed (if, indeed, it be not before) to the
disembodied man, in the Being that made him?  And
may it not also follow, that the Principle we speak of
will cease to be potential, and flow out, as it were, and
harmonize with the eternal form of Hope,- even that
Hope whose living end is in the unapproachable
Infinite?
Let us suppose this form of hope to be taken away
from an immortal being who has no self-satisfying
power within him, what would be his condition? A
conscious, interminable vacuum, were such a thing
possible, would but  faintly image it.  Hope, then,
though in its nature unrealizable, is not a mere notion;
for so long as it continues hope, it is to the mind an
object and an object to be realized; so, where its form
is eternal, it cannot but be to it an ever-during object.
Hence we may conceive of a never-ending approximation to what can never be realized.
From this it would appear, that, while we cannot
to ourselves become the object of Harmony, it is
nevertheless certain, from the universal desire so to
realize it, that we cannot suppress the continual
impulse of this paramount Principle; which, therefore, as it seems to us, must have a double purpose;
first, by its outward manifestation, which we all recognize, to confirm its reality, and secondly, to convince
the mind that its true object is not merely out of, but
above, itself, -and only to be found in the Infinite
Creator.
74 
ART.
IN treating on Art, which, in its highest sense, and
more especially in relation to Painting and Sculpture,
is the subject proposed for our present examination, the
first question that occurs is, In what consists its peculiar
character? or rather, What are the characteristics that
distinguish it from Nature, which it professes to imitate?
To this we reply, that Art is characterized, -
First, by Originality.
Secondly, by what we shall call Human or Poetic
Truth; which is the verifying principle by which we
recognize the first.
Thirdly, by Invention; the product of the Imagination, as grounded on the first, and verified by the second.  And,
Fourthly, by Unity, the synthesis of all.
As the first step to the right understanding of any
discourse is a clear apprehension of the terms used, we
add, that by Originality we mean any thing (admitted
by the mind as true) which is peculiar to the Author,
and which distinguishes his production from that of all
others; by Human or Poetic Truth, that which may be
said to exist exclusively in and for the mind, and as
contradistinguished from the truth of things in the 
LECTURES ON ART.
natural or external world; by Invention, any unpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the combination of entire objects already known, or by the
union and modification of known but fragmentary parts
into new and consistent forms; and, lastly, by Unity,
such an agreement and interdependence of all the
parts, as shall constitute a whole.
It will be our attempt to show, that, by the presence
or absence of any one of these characteristics, we shall
be able to affirm or deny in respect to the pretension of
any object as a work of Art; and also that we shall
find within ourselves the corresponding law, or by
whatever word we choose to designate it, by which
each will be recognized; that is, in the degree proportioned to the developement, or active force, of the law
so judging.
Supposing the reader to have gone along with us in
wThat has been said of the Universal, in our Preliminary Discourse, and as assenting to the position, that
any faculty, law, or principle, which can be shown to
be essential to any one mind, must necessarily be also
predicated of every other sound mind, even where the
particular faculty or law is so feebly developed as
apparently to amount to its absence, in which case it
is inferred potentially,- we shall now assume, on the
same grounds, that the originating cause, notwithstanding its apparent absence in the majority of men, is an
essential reality in the condition of the Human Being;
its potential existence in all being of necessity affirmed from its existence in one.
Assuming, then, its reality, - or rather leaving it to
be evidenced from its known effects, - we proceed to
inquire in what consists this originating power.
And, first, as to its most sinrple form.  If it be true,
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ART.
(as we hope to set forth more at large in a future discourse,) that no two minds were ever found to be
identical, there must then in every individual mind be
sometling which is not in any other.  And, if this unknown something is also found to give its peculiar hue,
so to speak, to every impression from outward objects,
it seems but a natural inference, that, whatever it be, it
must possess a pervading force over the entire mind, -
at least, in relation to what is external. But, though
this may truly be affirmed of man generally, from its
evidence in any one person, we shall be far from the
fact, should we therefore affirm, that, otherwise than
potentially, the power of outwardly manifesting it is
also universal. We know that it is not,- and our daily
experience proves that the power of reproducing or
giving out the individualized impressions is widely
different in different men. With some it is so feeble
as apparently never to act; and, so far as our subject
is concerned, it may practically be said not to exist; of
which we have abundant examples in other mental
phenomena, where an imperfect activity often renders
the existence of some essential faculty a virtual nullity.
When it acts in the higher degrees, so as to make another see or feel as the Individual saw or felt,- this,
in relation to Art, is what we mean, in its strictest
sense, by Originality.  He, therefore, who possesses the
power of presenting to another the precise images or
emotions as they existed in himself, presents that
which can be found nowhere else, and was first found
by and within himself; and, however light or trifling,
where these are true as to his own mind, their author is
so far an originator.
But let us take an example, and suppose two portraits; simple heads, without accessories, that is, with
7 
77 
LECTURES ON ART.
blank backgrounds, such as we  often see, where  no
attempt is made at composition; and both by artists of
equal talent, employing the same materials, and conducting their work according to the same technical
process. WVe will also suppose ourselves acquainted
with the person represented, with whoni to compare
them. Who, that has ever made a similar comparison,
will expect to find them identical? On the contrary,
though in all respects equal, in execution, likeness, &C.,
we shall still perceive a certain exclusive something that
will instantly distinguish the one from the other, and
both from the original. And yet they shall both seem
to us true. But they will be true to us also in a double
sense; namely, as to the living original and as to the
individuality of the different painters. Where such is
the result, both artists must originate, inasmuch as
they both outwardly realize the individual image of
their distinctive minds.
Nor can the truth they present be ascribed to the
technic process, which we have supposed the same with
each; as, on such a supposition, with their equal skill,
the result must have been identical. No; by whatever it is that one man's mental impression, or his mode
of thought, is made to differ from another's, it is that
something, which our imaginary artists have here transferred to their pencil, that makes them different, yet
both original.
Now, whether the medium through which the impressions, conceptions, or emotions of the mind are
thus externally realized be that of colors, words, or
any thing else, this mysterious though certain principle
is, as we believe, the true and only source of all originality.
In the power of assimilating what is foreign, or ex
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ART l.
ternal, to our own particular nature consists the individualizing law, and in the power of reproducing what
is thus modified consists the originating cause.
Let us turn now to an opposite example, -to a mere
mechanical copy of some natural object, where the
marks in question are wholly wanting. Will any one
be truly affected by it?  We think not; we do not say
that he will not praise it, -this he may do from various
motives; but his feeling - if we may so name the index of the law within - will not be called forth to any
spontaneous correspondence with the object before
him.
But why talk of feeling, says the pseudo-connoisseur,
where we should only, or at least first, bring knowledge?  This is the common cant of those who become
critics for the sake of distinction. Let the Artist avoid
them, if he would not disfranchise himself in the suppression of that uncompromising test within him, which
is the only sure guide to the truth without.
It is a poor ambition to desire the office of a judge
merely for the sake of passing sentence. But such an
ambition is not likely to possess a person of true sensibility. There are some, however, in whom there is no
deficiency of sensibility, yet who, either from self-distrust, or from some mistaken notion of Art, are easily
persuaded to give up a right feeling, in exchange for
what they may suppose to be knowledge, - the barren
knowledge of faults; as if there could be a human production without them!  Nevertheless, there is little to be
apprehended from any conventional theory, by one who
is forewarned of its mere negative power, - that it can,
at best, only suppress feeling; for no one ever was, or
ever can be, argued into a real liking for what he has once
felt to be false.  But, where the feeling is genuine, and
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LECTURES ON ART.
not the mere reflex of a popular notion, so far as it goes
it must be true. Let no one, therefore, distrust it, to take
counsel of his head, when he finds himself standing before a work of Art.  Does he feel its truth? is the only
question, -if, indeed, the impertinence of the understanding should then propound one; which we think it
will not, where the feeling is powerful. To such a one,
the characteristic of Art upon which we are now discoursirng will force its way with the power of light; nor
will he ever be in danger of mistaking a mechanical
copy for a living imitation.
But we sometimes hear of " faithful transcripts," nay,
of fac-similes. If by these be implied neither more nor
less than exists in their originals, they must still, in that
case, find their true place in the dead category of Copy.
Yet we need not be detained by any inquiry concerning the merits of a fac-simile, since we firmly deny that
a fac-simile, in the true sense of the term, is a thing
possible.
That an absolute identity between any natural object and its represented image is a thing impossible,
will hardly be questioned by any one who thinks,
and will give the subject a moment's reflection; and
the difficulty lies in the nature of things, the one being
the work of the Creator, and the other of the creature.
We shall therefore assume as a fact, the eternal and
insuperable difference between Art and Nature. That
our pleasure from Art is nevertheless similar, not to say
equal, to that which we derive from Nature, is also a
fact established by experience; to account for which we
are necessarily led to the admission of another fact,
namely, that there exists in Art a peculiar something
which we receive as equivalent to the admitted difference. Now, whether we call this equivalent, individu
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ART.
alized truth, or human or poetic truth, it matters not;
we know by its effects, that some such principle does
exist, and that it acts upon us, and in a way corresponding to the operation of that which we call Truth
and Life in the natural world. Of the various laws
growing out of this principle, which take the name of
Rules when applied to Art, we shall have occasion to
speak in a future discourse. At present we shall confine ourselves to the inquiry, how far the difference
alluded to may be safely allowed in any work professing to be an imitation of Nature.
The fact, that truth may subsist with a very considerable admixture of falsehood, is too well known to
require an argument. However reprehensible such an
admixture may be in morals, it becomes in Art, from the
limited nature of our powers, a matter of necessity.
For the same reason, even the realizing of a thought,
or that which is properly and exclusively human, must
ever be imperfect. If Truth, then, form but the greater
proportion, it is quite as much as we may reasonably
look for in a work of Art. But why, it may be asked,
where the false predominates, do we still derive pleasure? Simply because of the Truth that remains. If it
be further demanded, What is the minimum of truth
in order to a pleasurable effect? we reply, So much
only as will cause us to feel that the truth exists. It
is this feeling alone that determines, not only the true,
but the degrees of truth, and consequently the degrees
of pleasure.
Where no such feeling is awakened, and supposing
no deficiency in the recipient, he may safely, firom its
absence, pronounce the work false; nor could any ingenious theory of the understanding convince him to
the contrary. He may, indeed, as some are wont to
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LECTURES ON ART.
do, make a random guess, and call the work true; but
he can never so feel it by any effort of reasoning. But
may not men differ as to their impressions of truth?
Certainly as to the degrees of it, and in this according
to their sensibility, in which we know that men are not
equal. By sensibility here we mean the power or ca pacity of receiving impressions. All men, indeed, with
equal organs, may be said in a certain sense to see
alike. But will the same natural object, conveyed
through these organs, leave the same impression?
The fact is otherwise. What, then, causes the difference, if it be not (as before observed) a peculiar something in the individual mind, that modifies the image?
If so, there must of necessity be in every true work of
Art-  if we may venture the expression -another, or
distinctive, truth. To recognize this, therefore, - as we
have elsewhere endeavoured to show, - supposes in the
recipient something akin to it. And, though it be in
reality but a sign of life, it is still a sign of which we
no sooner receive the impress, than, by a law of our
mind, we feel it to be acting upon our thoughts and
sympathies, without our knowing how or wherefore.
Admitting, therefore, the corresponding instinct, or
whatever else it may be called, to vary in men,which there is no reason to doubt,-the solution of
their unequal impression appears at once.  Hence it
would be no extravagant metaphor, should we affirm
that some persons see more with their minds than
others with their eyes. Nay, it must be obvious to all
who are conversant with Art, that much, if not the
greater part, in its higher branches is especially addressed to this mental vision. And it is very certain,
if there were no truth beyond the reach of the senses,
that little would remain to us of what we now consider
our highest and most refined pleasure.
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ART.
But it must not be inferred that originality consists
in any contradiction to Nature; for, were this allowed
and carried out, it would bring us to the conclusion, that,
the greater the contradiction, the higher the Art. We
insist only on the modification of the natural by the personal; for Nature is, and ever must be, at least the sensuous ground of all Art: and where the outward and
inward are so united that we cannot separate them, there
shall we find the perfection of Art. So complete a union
has, perhaps, never been accomplished, and may be impossible; it is certain, however, that no approach to excellence can ever be made, if the idea of such a union
be not constantly looked to by the artist as his ultimate
aim.  Nor can the idea be admitted without supposing
a third as the product of the two, -  which we call Art;
between which and Nature, in its strictest sense, there
must ever be a difference; indeed, a difference with resembtance is that which constitutes its essential condition.
It has doubtless been observed, that, in this inquiry
concerning the nature and operation of the first characteristic, the presence of the second, or verifying principle, has been all along implied; nor could it be otherwise, because of their mutual dependence. Still more
will its active agency be supposed in our examination
of the third, namely, Invention.  But before we pro
ceed to that, the paramount index of the highest art, it
may not be amiss to obtain, if possible, some distinct
apprehension of what we have termed Poetic Truth;
to which, it will be remembered, was also prefixed the
epithet Human, our object therein being to prepare the
mind, by a single word, for its peculiar sphere; and we
think it applicable also for a more important reason,
namely, that this kind of Truth is the true ground of the
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LECTURES ON ART.
poetical,- for in what consists the poetry of the natural world, if not in the sentiment and reacting life it
receives from the human fancy and affections? And,
until it can be shown that sentiment and fancy are
also shared by the brute creation, this seeming effluence from the beautiful in nature must rightfully
revert to man.   What, for instance, can we  suppose
to be the effect of the purple haze of a summer sunset on the cows and sheep, or even on the more delicate inhabitants of the air? From what we know of
their habits, we cannot suppose more than the mere
physical enjoyment of its genial temperature.   But
how is it with the poet, whom we shall suppose an object in the same scene, stretched on the same bank with
the ruminating cattle, and basking in the same light
that flickers from the skimming birds. Does he feel
nothing more than the genial warmth? Ask him, and
he perhaps will say, -" This is my soul's hour; this purpled air the heart's atmosphere, melting by its breath
the sealed fountains of love, which the cold commonplace of the world had frozen: I feel them gushing
forth on every thing around me; and how worthy of
love now  appear to me these innocent animals, nay,
these whispering leaves, that seem to kiss the passing
air, and blush the while at their own fondness! Surely
they are happy, and grateful too that they are so; for
hark! how the little birds send up their song of praise!
and see howv the waving trees and waving grass, in
mute accordance, keep time with the hymn!" 
This is but one of the thousand forms in which the
human  spirit is wont to effuse itself on the things
without, making to the mind a new and fairer world,
even the shacldowing of that which its immortal craving
will sometimes dream of in the unknown future.  Nay,
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ART.
there is scarcely an object so familiar or humble, that
its magical touch cannot invest it with some poetic
charm. Let us take an extreme instance,-a pig in
his sty. The painter, Morland, was able to convert even
this disgusting object into a source of pleasure, - and
a pleasure as real as any that is known to the palate.
Leaving this to have the weight it may be found to
deserve, we turn to the original question; namely,
What do we mean by Human or Poetic Truth?
When, in respect to certain objects, the effects are
found to be uniformly of the same kind, not only upon ourselves, but also upon others, we may reasonably
infer that the efficient cause is of one nature, and that
its uniformity is a necessary result.   And, when  we
also find that these effects, though differing in degree,
are yet uniform in their character, while they seem to
proceed from objects which in themselves are indefinitely variant, both in kind and degree, we are still more
forcibly drawn to the conclusion, that the cause is not
only one, but not inherent in the object.* The question
now arises, What, then, is that which seems to us
so like an alter et ides, - which appears to act upon,
and is recognized by us, through an animal, a bird, a
tree, and a thousand different, nay, opposing objects,
in the same way, and to the same end? The inference follows of necessity, that the mysterious cause
must be in some general law, which is absolute and
imperative in relation to every such object under certain
conditions. And we receive the solution as true, -
because we cannot help it. The reality, then, of such a
law becomes a fixture in the mind.
But we do not stop here: we would know some
* See Introductory Discourse.
8
85 
LECTURES ON  ART.
thing concerning the conditions supposed. And in order to this, we go back to the effect. And the answer
is returned in the form of a question, - May it not be
somnething fromn oifrselves, which is reflected back by
the object, -  something with which, as it were, we imbue the object, making it correspond to a )eality within
us?  Now we recognize the reality within; we recognize it also in the object, - and the affirming light
flashes upon us, not in the form of deduclion, but of
inherent Truth, which we cannot get rid of; and we
call it Truth,- for it will take no other name.
It now remains to discover, so to speak, its location.
In what part, then, of man may this self-evidenced, yet
elusive, Truth or power be said to reside? It cannot
be in the senses; for the senses can impart no more
than they receive.  Is it, then, in the mind?  Here we
are compelled to ask, What is understood by the mind?
Do we mean the understanding?  We  can trace no relation between the Truth we would class and the reflective faculties. Or in the moral principle? Surely
not; for we can predicate neither good nor evil by the
Truth in question.  Finally, do we find it identified
with the truth of the Spirit? But what is the truth of
the Spirit but the Spirit itself,-the conscious I? which
is never even thought of in connection with it.  In
what form, then, shall we recognize it? In its own,the form of Life,- the life of the Human Being; that
self-projecting, realizing power, which is ever present,
ever acting and giving judgment on the instant on all
things corresponding with its inscrutable self. We now
assign it a distinctive epithet, and call it Human.
It is a common saying, that there is more in a name
than we are apt to imagine. And the saying is not
without reason; for when the name happens to be the
86 
ART.
true one, being proved in its application, it becomes no
unimportant indicator as to the particular offices for
which the thing named was designed. So we find it
with respect to the Truth of which we speak; its distinctive epithet marking out to us, as its sphere of
action, the mysterious intercourse between man and
man; whether the medium consist in words or colors,
in thought or formn, or in any thing else on which the
human agent may impress, be it in a sign only, his
own marvellous life.   As to the process or modus
operandi, it were a vain endcavour to seek it out: that
divine secret must ever to man be an humbling darkness. It is enough for him to know that there is that
within him which is ever answering to that without,
as life to life, - which must be life, and which must
be true.
We proceed now to the third characteristic. It has
already been stated, in the general definition, what
we would be understood to mean by the term Invention, in its particular relation to Art; namely, any unpractised mode of presenting a subject, whether by the
combination of forms already known, or by the union
and modification of known but fragmentary parts into a
new and consistent whole: in both cases tested by the
two preceding characteristics.
We shall consider first that division of the subject
which stands first in order,- the Invention which consists in the new combination of known forms. This
may be said to be governed by its exclusive relation
either to what is, or has been, or, when limited by the
probable, to what strictly may be. It may therefore be
distinguished by the term Natural. But though we so
name it, inasmuch as all its forms have their prototypes in the Actual, it must still be remembered that
87 
I,ECTTURES ON ART.
these existing forms do substantially constitute no
more than mere parts to be combined into a whole, for
which Nature has provided no original. For examples
in this, the most comprehensive class, we need not refer to any particular school; they are to be found in
all and in every gallery: from the histories of Raffaelle, the landscapes of Claude and Poussin and others,
to the familiar scenes of Jan Steen, Ostade, and Brower.
In each of these an adherence to the actual, if not
strictly observed, is at least supposed in all its parts;
not so in the whole, as that relates to the probable; by
which we mean  such a result as would be true, were
the same combination to occur in nature. Nor must
we be understood to mean, by adherence to the actual,
that one part is to be taken for an exact portrait; we
mean only such an imitation as precludes an intentional deviation from already existing and known forms.
It must be very obvious, that, in classing together
any of the productions of the artists above named, it
cannot be intended to reduce them to a level; such an
attempt (did our argument require it) must instantly
revolt the common sense and feeling of every one at
all acquainted with  Art.   And therefore, perhaps, it
may be thought that their striking difference, both in
kind and degree, might justly call for some further
division. But admitting, as all must, a wide, nay,
almost impassable, interval between the familiar subjects of the lower Dutch and Flemish painters, and the
higher intellectual works of the great Italian masters,
we see no reason why they may not be left to draw
their own-line of demarcation as to their respective
provinces, even as is every day done by actual objects;
which are all equally natural, though widely differenced as well in kind as in quality. It is no degradation
88 
ART.
to the greatest genius to say of him and of the most
unlettered boor, that they are both men.
Besides, as a more minute division would be wholly
irrelevant to the present purpose, we shall defer theexamination of their individual differences to another
occasion. In order, however, more distinctly to exhibit
their common ground of Invention, we will briefly
examine a picture by Ostade, and then compare it with
one by Raffaelle, than whom no two artists could
well be imagined having less in common.
The interior of a Dutch cottage forms the scene of
Ostade's work, presenting something between a kitchen
and a stable. Its principal object is the carcass of a
hog, newly washed and hung up to dry; subordinate
to which is a woman nursing an infant; the accessories, various garments, pots, kettles, and other culinary
utensils.
The bare enumeration of these coarse materials
would naturally predispose the mind of one, unacquainted with the Dutch school, to expect any thing
but pleasure; indifference, not to say disgust, would
seem to be the only possible impression from a picture
composed  of  such ingredients.   And  such, indeed,
would be their effect under the hand of any but a real
Artist.  Let  us look  into  the  picture  and  follow
Ostade's mind, as it leaves its impress on the several objects. Observe how he spreads his principal
light, from the suspended carcass to the surrounding objects, moulding it, so to speak, into agreeable
shapes, here by extending it to a bit of drapery, there
to an earthen pot; then connecting it, by the flash
from a brass kettle, with his second light, the woman
and child; and again turning the eye into the dark
recesses through a labyrinth of broken chairs, old bas               8S
89 
LECTURES ON ART.
kets, roosting fowIs, and bits of straw, till a glimpse of
sunshine, from a half-open window, gleams on the eye,
as it were, like an echo, and sending it back to the
principal object, which now seems to act on the mind
as the luminous source of all these diverging lights.
But the magical whole is not yet completed; the
mystery of color has been called in to the aid of
light, and so subtly blends that we can hardly separate them; at least, until their united effect has first
been felt, and after we have begun the process of cold
analysis. Yet even then we cannot long proceed before we find the charm returning; as we pass from the
blaze of light on the carcass, where all the tints of the
prism seem to be faintly subdued, we are met on its
borders by the dark harslet, glowing like rubies; then
we repose awhile on the white cap and kerchief of the
nursing mother; then we are roused again by the flickering strife of the antagonist colors on a blue jacket
and red petticoat; then the strife is softened by the
low yellow of a straw-bottomed chair; and thus with
alternating excitement and repose do we travel through
the picture, till the scientific explorer loses the analyst
in the unresisting passiveness of a poetic dream. Now
all this will no doubt appear to many, if not absurd,
at least exaggerated: but not so to those who have ever
felt the sorcery of color. They, we are sure, will be
the last to question the character of the feeling because of the ingredients which worked the spell, and,
if true to themselves, they must call it poetry.  Nor
will they consider it any disparagement to the allaccomplished Raffaelle to say of Ostade that he also
was an Artist.
We turn now to a work of the great Italian,- the
Death of Ananias. The scene is laid in a plain apart
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ART.
ment, which is wholly devoid of ornament, as became
the hall of audience of the primitive Christians. The
Apostles (then eleven in number) have assembled to
transact the temporal business of the Church, and are
standing together on a slightly elevated platform, about
which, in various attitudes, some standing, others kneeling, is gathered a promiscuous assemblage of their
new converts, male and female. This quiet assembly
(for we still feel its quietness in the midst of the awful
judgment) is suddenly roused by the sudden fall of one
of their brethren; some of them turn and see him
struggling in the agonies of death. A moment before
he was in the vigor of life, - as his muscular limbs
still bear evidence; but he had uttered a falsehood, and
an instant after his frame is convulsed from head to
foot. Nor do we doubt for a moment as to the awful
cause: it is almost expressed in voice by those nearest to him, and, though varied by their different temperaments, by terror, astonishment, and submissive
faith, this voice has yet but one meaning, -" Ananias
has lied to the Holy  Ghost."  The  terrible  words,
as if audible to the mind, now direct us to him who
pronounced his doom, and the singly-raised finger of
the Apostle marks him the judge; yet not of himself,- for neither his attitude, air, nor expression
has any thing in unison with the impetuous Peter, -
he is now  the  simple, passive,  yet  awful instrument of the Almighty: while another on the right,
with equal calmness, though with more severity,
by his elevated arm, as beckoning to judgment, anticipates the fate of the entering Sapphira. Yet all is
not done; lest a question remain, the Apostle on the
left confirms the judgment. No one can mistake what
passes within him; like one transfixed in adoration, his
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LECTURES ON ART.
uplifted eyes seem to ray out his soul, as if in recognition of the divine tribunal. But the overpowering
thought of Omnipotence is now tempered by the human sympathy of his companion, whose open hands,
connecting the past with the present, seem almnost to
articulate, "Alas, my brother!"  By this exquisite turn,
we are next brought to John, the gentle almoner of the
Church, who is dealing out their portions to the needy
brethren. And here, as most remote from the judged
Ananias, whose suffering seems not yet to have reached
it, we find a spot of repose, - not to pass by, but to
linger upon, till we feel its quiet influence diffusing itself over the whole mind; nay, till, connecting it with
the beloved Disciple, we find it leading us back through
the exciting scene, modifying even our deepest emotions
with a kindred tranquillity.
This is  Invention; we  have  not  moved  a step
through the picture but at the will of the Artist. He
invented the chain which we have followed, link by link,
through every emotion, assimilating many into one; and
this is the secret by which he prepared us, without exciting horror, to contemplate the struggle of mortal agony.
This too is Art; and the highest art, when thus the
awful power, without losing its character, is tempered,
as it were, to our mysterious desires. In the work of
Ostade, we see the same inventive power, no less effective, though acting through the medium of the humblest materials.
We  have now exhibited two pictures, and by two
painters who may be said to stand at opposite poles.
And yet, widely apart as are their apparent stations,
they are nevertheless tenants of the same ground,
namely, actual nature; the only difference being, that
one is the sovereign of the purely physical, the other of
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ART.
the moral and intellectual, while their common medium is the catholic ground of the imagination.
We do not fear either skeptical demur or direct contradiction, when we assert that the imagination is as
much the medium of the homely Ostade, as of the
refined Raffaelle. For what is that, which has just
wrapped us as in a spell when we entered his humble
cottage, -which, as we wandered through it, invested
the coarsest object with a strange charm? Was it the
truth of these objects that we there acknowledged?
In part, certainly, but not simply the truth that belongs
to their originals; it was the truth of his own individual mind superadded to that of nature, nay, clothed
upon besides by his imagination, imbuing it with all
the poetic hues  which float in the opposite regions of
night and day, and which only a poet can mingle and
make visible in one pervading atmosphere. To all this
our own minds, our own imaginations, respond, and we
pronounce it true to both. We have no other rule,
and well may the artists of every age and country
thank the great Lawgiver that there is no other. The
despised feeling which the schools have scouted is yet
the mother of that science of which they vainly boast.
But of this we may have more to say in another place.
We shall now ascend from the probable to the possible, to that branch of Invention whose proper office is
from the known but fragmentary to realize the unknown; in other words, to embody the possible, having
its sphere of action in the world of Ideas. To this class,
therefore, may properly be assigned the term Ideal.
And here, as being its most important scene, it will
be necessary to take a more particular view of the verifying principle, the agent, so to speak, that gives reality to the inward, when outwardly manifested.
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LECTURES ON ART.
Now, whether we call this Human or Poetic Truth,
or inward life, it matters not; we know by its effects,
(as we have already said, and we  now repeat,) that
some such principle does exist, and that it acts upon
us, and in a way analogous to the operation of that
which we call truth and life in the world about us. And
that the cause of this analogy is a real affinity between
the two powers seems to us confirmed, not only positively by this acknowledged fact, but also negatively
by the absence of the effect above mentioned in all
those productions of the mind which we pronounce unnatural.  It is therefore in effect, or quoad ourselves,
both truth and life, addressed, if we may use the expression, to that inscrutable instinct of the imagination
which conducts us to the knowledge of all invisible
realities.
A distinct apprehension of the reality and of the
office of this important principle, we cannot but think,
will enable us to ascertain with some degree of precision, at least so far as relates to art, the true limits of the
Possible,- the sphere, as premised, of Ideal Invention.
As to what some have called our creative powers, we
take it for granted that no correct thinker has ever applied such expressions literally. Strictly speaking, we
can make nothing: we  can only construct.  But how
vast a theatre is here laid open to the constructive powers of the finite creature; where the physical eye is
permitted to travel for millions and millions of miles,
while that of the mind may, swifter than light, follow
out the journey, from star to star, till it falls back on
itself with the humbling conviction that the measureless
journey is then but begun! It is needless to dwell on
the immeasurable mass of materials which a world
like this may supply to the Artist.
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ART.
The very thought of its vastness darkens into wonder. Yet how much deeper the wonder, when the created mind looks into itself, and contemplates the power
of impressing its thoughts on all things visible; nay, of
giving the likeness of life to things inanimate; and,
still more marvellous, by the mere combination of
words or colors, of evolving into shape its own Idea, till
some unknown form, having no type in the actual, is
made to seem to us an organized being. When such
is the result of any unknown combination, then it is
that we achieve the Possible. And here the Realizing
Principle may strictly be said to prove itself.
That such an effect should follow a cause which we
know to be purely imaginary, supposes, as we have
said, something in ourselves which holds, of necessity, a
predetermined relation to every object either outwardly
existing or projected from the mind, which we thus
recognize as true.   If so, then the Possible and the
Ideal are convertible terms; having their existence, ab
initio, in the nature of the mind.   The soundness of
this inference is also supported negatively, as just observed, by the opposite result, as in the case of those
fantastic combinations, which we sometimes meet with
both in Poetry and Painting, and which we do not hesitate to pronounce unnatural, that is, false.
And here we would not be understood as implying
the preexistence of all possible forms, as so many
patterns, but only of that constructive Power which
imparts its own Truth to the unseen real, and, under
certain conditions, reflects the image or semblance of
its truth on all things imagined; and which must be
assumed in order to account for the phenomena presented in the frequent coincident effect between the real
and the feigned. Nor does the absence of conscious
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LECTURES ON ART.
ness in particular individuals, as to this Power in themselves, fairly affect its universality, at least potentially:
since by the same rule there would be equal ground for
denying the existence of any faculty of the mind which
is of slow or gradual developement; all that we may
reasonably infer in such cases is, that the whole mind
is not yet revealed to itself. In some of the greatest
artists, the inventive powers have been of late developement; as in Claude, and the sculptor Falconet. And
can any one believe that, while the latter was hewing
his master's marble, and the former making pastry,
either of them was conscious of the sublime Ideas
which afterwards took form for the admiration of the
world?  When Raffaelle, then a youth, was selected to
execute the noble works which now live on the walls of
the Vatican, "he had done little or nothing," says Reynolds, "to justify so high a trust."  Nor could he have
been  certain, from  what he knew  of himself; that
he was equal to the task. He could only hope to
succeed; and his hope was no doubt founded on his
experience of the progressive developement of his mind
in former efforts; rationally concluding, that the originally seeming blank from which had arisen so many
admirable forms was still teeming with others, that
only wanted the occasion, or excitement, to come forth
at his bidding.
To return to that which, as the interpreting medium
of his thoughts and conceptions, connects the artist with
his fellow-men,  we remark, that only on the ground
of some self-realizing power, like what we have termed
Poetic Truth, could what we call the Ideal ever be intelligible.
That some such power is inherent and fundamental
in our nature, though differenced in individuals by
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ART.
more or less activity, seems more especially con firmed in this latter branch of the subject, where the
phenomena presented are exclusively of the Possible.
Indeed, we  cannot  conceive  how without it there
could ever be such a thing as true Art; for what might
be received as such in one age might also be overruled
in the next:  as we know  to be the case with most
things depending on opinion. But, happily for Art, if
once established on this immutable base, there it must
rest: and rest unchanged, amidst the endless fluctua tions of manners, habits, and opinions; for its truth of
a thousand years is as the truth of yesterday. Hence
the beings described by Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton
are as true to us now, as the recent characters of Scott.
Nor  is it the least characteristic of this important
Truth, that the only thing needed for its full reception
is simply its presence, -being its own evidence.
How otherwise could such a being as Caliban ever
be true to us? We have never seen his race; nay, we
knew not that such a creature could exist, until he started upon us from the mind of Shakspeare. Yet who
ever stopped to ask if he were a real being?  His existence to the mind is instantly felt;- not as a matter of
faith, but of fact, and a fact, too, which the imagination
cannot get rid of if it would, but which must ever remain there, verifying itself, from the first to the last moment of consciousness. From whatever point we view
this singular creature, his reality is felt. His very language, his habits, his feelings, whenever they recur to
us, are all issues from a living thing, acting upon us,
nay, forcing the mind, in somne instances, even to speculate on his nature, till it finds itself classing him in the
chain of being as the intermediate link between man
and the brute. And this we do not by an ingenious
9
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LIEC'TURES ON ART.
efbfort, but almost by involuntary induction; for we perceive speech and intellect, and yet without a soul.
What but an intellectual brute could have uttered the
imprecations of Caliban? They would not be natural
in man, whether savage or civilized. Hear him, in his
wrath against Prospero and Miranda:
"A wicked dew as Ce'er my mother brushed
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,
Light on you both!"
The wild malignity of this curse, fierce as it is, yet
wants the moral venom, the devilish leaven, of a consenting spirit: it is all but human.
To this we may  add a similar example, from our
own art, in the Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, of Sir
Joshua Reynolds. Who can look at this exquisite little creature, seated on its toadstool cushion, and not
acknowledge its prerogative of life,- that mysterious
influence which in spite of the stubborn understanding
masters the mind, - sending it back to days long past,
when care was but a dream, and its most serious business a childish frolic? But we no longer think of childhood as the past, still less as an abstraction; we see it
embodied before us, in all its mirth and fun and glee;
and the grave man becomes again a child, to feel as a
child, and to follow the little enchanter through all his
wiles and never-ending labyrinth of pranks. What can
be real, if that is not which so takes us out of our
present selves, that the weight of years falls from
us as a garment, -that the freshness of life seems
to begin anew, and the heart and the fancy, resuming their first joyous consciousness, to launch again
into this moving world, as on a sunny sea, whose
pliant waves yield to the touch, yet, sparkling and
buoyant, carry them onward in their merry gambols?
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ART.
Where all the purposes of reality are answered, if
there be no philosophy in admitting, we see no wisdom in disputing it.
Of the immutable nature of this peculiar Truth, we
have a like instance in the Farnese Hercules; the work
of the Grecian sculptor Glycon,- we had almost said
his immortal offspring.  Since the time of its birth,
cities and empires, even whole nations, have disappeared, giving place to others, more or less barbarous or
civilized; yet these are as nothing to the countless revolutions which have marked the interval in the manners, habits, and opinions of men. Is it reasonable,
then, to suppose that any thing not immutable in its
nature could possibly have withstood such continual
fluctuation? But how have all these changes affected
this visible image of Truthl?  In no wise; not a jot;
and because what is true is independent of opinion: it
is the same to us now as it was to the men of the dust of
antiquity. The unlearned spectator of the present day
may not, indeed, see in it the Demigod of Greece; but
he can never mistake it for a mere exaggeration of the
human form; though of mortal mould, he cannot doubt
its possession of more than mortal powers; he feels its
essential life, for he feels before it as in the stirring presence of a superior being.
Perhaps the attempt to give form and substance to a
pure Idea was never so perfectly accomplished as in:
this wonderful figure.  Who  has ever seen the ocean
in repose, in its awful sleep, that smooths it like glass,.
yet cannot level its unfathomed swell?  So seems to  -
us the repose of this tremendous personification of  —.'
strength: the laboring eye heaves on its slumbering
sea of muscles, and trembles like a skiff as it passes
over them: but the silent intimations of the spirit be
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,LECT'URES ON  ARTT.
neath at length become audible; the startled imagina tion hears it in its rage, sees it in motion, and sees its
resistless might in the passive wrecks that follow the up roar.  And this from a piece of marble, cold, immovable,
lifeless!  Surely there is that in man, which the senses
cannot reach, nor the plumb of the understanding
sound.
Let us turn now to the Apollo called Belvedere. In
this supernal being, the human form seems to have been
assumed as if to make visible the harmonious conflu ence of the pure ideas of grace, fleetness, and majesty;
nor do we think it too fanciful to add celestial splen dor; for such, in effect, are the thoughts which crowd,
or rather rush, into the mind on first beholding it.
Who that saw it in what may be called the place of
its glory, the Gallery of Napoleon, ever thought of it
as a man, much less as a statue; but did not feel rath er as if the vision before him were of another world,
of one who had just lighted on the earth, and with a
step so ethereal, that the next instant he would vault into
the air? If I may be permitted to recall the impression
which it made on myself, I know not that I could bet ter describe it than as a sudden intellectual flash, filling
the whole mind with light, —and light in motion. It
seemed to the mind what the first sight of the sun is
to the senses, as it emerges from the ocean; when from
a point of light the whole orb at once appears to bound
from the waters, and to dart its rays, as by a visible ex plosion, through the profound of space.   But, as  the
deified Sun, how completely is the conception verified
'"in the thoughts that follow the effulgent original and
its marble  counterpart!  Perennial youth, perennial
brightness, follow them both. Who can imagine the
old age of the sun?  As soon may we think of an old
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ART.
Apollo. Now all this may be ascribed to the imagination of the beholder. Granted, - yet will it not thus
be explained away. For that is the very faculty addressed by every work of Genius,-whose nature is suggestive; and only when it excites to or awakens congenial thoughts and emotions, filling the imagination
with corresponding images, does it attain its proper end.
The false and the commonplace can never do this.
It were easy to multiply similar examples; the bare
mention of a single name in modern art might conjure
up a host,- the name of Michael Angelo, the mighty
sovereign of the Ideal, than whom no one ever trod so
near, yet so securely, the dizzy brink of the Impossible.
Of Unity, the fourth and last characteristic, we shall
say but little; for we know in truth little or nothing of
the law which governs it: indeed, all that we know but
amounts to this, -that, wherever existing, it presents to
the mind the Idea of a Whole,- which is itself a mystery.  For what answer can we give to the question,
What is a Whole? If we reply, That which has neither
more nor less than it ought to have, we do not advance
a step towards a definite notion; for the rule (if there
be one) is yet undiscovered, by which to measure either
the too much or the too little. Nevertheless, incomprehensible as it certainly is, it is what the mind wvill not
dispense with in a work of Art; nay, it will not concede even a right to the name to any production where
this is wanting. Nor is it a sound objection, that we
also receive pleasure from many things which seem to
us fragmentary; for instance, from actual views in Nature, - as we shall hope to show in another place. It is
sufficient at present, that, in relation to Art, the law of
the imagination demands a whole; in order to which
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not a single part must be felt to be wanting; all must
be there, however imperfectly rendered; nay, such is
the craving of this active faculty, that, be they but mere
hints, it will often fill them out to the desired end; the
only condition being, that the part hinted be founded in
truth. It is well known to artists, that a sketch, consisting of little more than hints, will frequently produce
the desired effect, and by the same means, - the hints
being true so far as expressed, and without an hiatus.
But let the artist attempt to finish his sketch, that
is, to fill out the parts, and suppose him deficient ini the
necessary skill, the consequence must be, that the true
hints, becoming transformed to elaborate falsehoods,
will be all at variance, while the revolted imagination
turns away with disgust. Nor is this a thing of rare
occurrence: indeed, he is a most fortunate artist, who
has never had to deplore a well-hinted whole thus
reduced to fragments.
These are facts; from which we may learn, that with
less than a whole, either already wrought, or so indicated that the excited imagination can of itself complete
it, no genuine response will ever be given to any production of man. And we learn from it also this twofold truth; first, that the Idea of a Whole contains in
itself a preexisting law; and, secondly, that Art, the
peculiar product of the Imagination, is one of its true
and predetermined ends.
As to its practical application, it were fruitless to
speculate. It applies itself, even as truth, both in action and reaction, verifying itself: and our minds submit, as if it had said, There is nothing wanting; so,
in the converse, its dictum is absolute when it announces a deficiency.
To return to the objection, that we often receive
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ART.
pleasure from many things in Nature which seem to
us fragmentary, we observe, that nothing in Nature
can be fragmentary, except in the seeming, and then,
too, to the understanding only,-to the feelings never;
for a grain of sand, no less than a planet, being an essential part of that mighty whole which we call the
universe, cannot be separated from the Idea of the
world without a positive act of the reflective faculties,
an act of volition; but until then even a grain of sand
cannot cease to imply it.  To the mere understanding,
indeed, even the greatest extent of actual objects which
the finite creature can possibly imagine must ever fall
short of the vast works of the Creator. Yet we nevertheless can, and do, apprehend the existence of the universe. Now we would ask here, whether the influence
of a real, - -and the epithet here is not unimportant,whether the influence of a real Whole is at no time felt
without an act of consciousness, that is, without thinking of a whole. Is this impossible? Is it altogether
out of experience? We have already shown (as we
think) that no unmodified copy of actual objects, whether single or multifarious, ever satisfies the imagination,
- which imperatively demands a something more, or
at least different.  And yet we often find that the very
objects from which these copies are made do satisfy us.
How and why is this? A question more easily put
than answered. We may suggest, however, what appears to us a clew, that in abler hands mnay possibly lead
to its solution; namely, the fact, that, among the innumerable emotions of a pleasurable kind derived from
the actual, there is not one, perhaps, which is strictly
confined to the objects before us, and which we do not,
either directly or indirectly, refer to something beyond
and not present. Now have we at all times a distinct
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consciousness of the things referred to? Are they not
rather more often vague, and only indicated in some
undefined feeling?  Nay, is its source more intelligible
where the feeling is more definite, when  taking the
form of a sense of harmony, as from something that
diffuses, yet deepens, unbroken in its progress through
endless variations, the melody as it were of the pleasur able object? Who has never felt, under certain cir cumstances, an expansion of the heart, an elevation of
mind, nay, a striving of the whole being to pass its lim ited bounds, for which he could find no adequate solu tion in the objects around him, -the apparent cause?
Or who can account for every mood that thralls him, -
at times like one entranced in a dream by airs from
Paradise,- at other times steeped in darkness, when the
spirit of discord seems to marshal his every thought,
one against another?
Whether it be that the Living Principle, which permeates all things throughout the physical world, cannot
be touched in a single point without conducting to its
centre, its source, and confluence, thus giving by a part,
though obscurely and indefinitely, a sense of the whole,
- we know not.  But this we may venture to assert, and
on no improbable ground, -that a ray of light is not
more continuously linked in its luminous particles than
our moral being with the whole moral universe.  If this
be so, may it not give us, in a faint shadowing at least,
some intimation of the many real, though unknown
relations, which everywhere surround and bear upon
us? In the deeper emotions, we have, sometimes,
what seems to us a fearful proof of it. But let us look
at it negatively; and suppose a case where this chain
is broken, - of a human being who is thus cut off from
all possible sympathies, and shut up, as it were, in the
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ART.
hopeless solitude of his own mind. What is this
horrible avulsion, this impenetrable self-imprisonment,
but the appalling state of despair? And what if we
should see it realized in some forsaken outcast, and
hear his forlorn cry, "Alone! alone!" while to his living
spirit that single word is all that is left him to fill the
blank of space?   In such a state, the very proudest
autocrat would yearn for the sympathy of the veriest
wretch.
It would seem, then, since this living cement which
is diffused through nature, binding all things in one, so
that no part can be contemplated that does not, of necessity, even though unconsciously to us, act on the
mind with reference to the whole,- since this, as we
find, cannot be transferred to any copy of the actual, it
must needs follow, if we would imitate Nature in its
true effects, that recourse must be had to another,
though similar principle, which shall so pervade our production as to satisfy the mind with an efficient equivalent. Now, in order to this there are two conditions
required: first, the personal modification, (already discussed) of every separate part, -which may be considered as its proper life; and, secondly, the uniting of
the parts by such an interdependence that they shall appear to us as essential, one to another, and all to each.
When this is done, the result is a whole. But how do
we  obtain this mutual  dependence?   We  refer the
questioner to the law of Harmony,-  that mysterious
power, which is only apprehended by its imperative
effect.
But, be the above as it may, we know it to be a fact,
that, whilst nothing in Nature ever affects us as fragmentary, no unmodified copy of her by man is ever
felt by us as otherwise.
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LECTURES ON ART.
We have thus- and, we trust, on no fanciful ground
-endeavoured to establish the real and  distinctive
character of Art. And, if our argument be admitted,
it will be found to have brought us to the following
conclusions: - first, that the true ground of all originality lies in the individualizin, law, that is, in that modifying power, which causes the difference between man
and man as to their mental impressions; secondly,
that only in a true reproduction consists its evidence;
thirdly, that in the involuntary response from other
minds lies the truth of the evidence; fourthly, that
in order to this response there must therefore exist
some universal kindred principle, which is essential to
the human mind, though widely differenced in the degree of its activity in different individuals; and finally,
that this principle, which we have here denominated
Human or Poetic Truth, being independent both of
the will and of the reflective faculties, is in its nature
imperative, to affirm or deny, in relation to every production pretending to Art, from the simple imitation
of the actual to the probable, and from the probable
to the possible; -in one word, that the several characteristics, Originality, Poetic Truth, Invention, each imply a something not inherent in the objects imitated,
but which must emanate alone from the mind of the
Artist.
And here it may be well to notice an apparent objection, that will probably occur to many, especially
among painters. How, then, they may ask, if the
principle in question be universal and imperative, do
we account for the mistakes which even great Artists
have sometimes made as to the realizing of their conceptions? We hope to show, that, so far from opposing, the very fact on which the objection is grounded
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ART-.
will be found, on the contrary, to confirm our doctrine.
Were such mistakes uniformly permanent, they might,
perhaps, have a rational weight; but that this is not
the case is clearly evident from the additional fact of
the change in the Artist's judgment, which almost invariably follows any considerable interval of time.
Nay, should a case occur where a similar mistake is
never rectified,- which is hardly probable, - we might
wrell consider it as one of those exceptions that prove
the rule,- of which we have abundant examples in other relations, where a true principle is so feebly developed
as to be virtually excluded from the sphere of consciousness, or, at least, where its imperfect activity is for all
practical purposes a mere nullity. But, without supposing any mental weakness, the case may be resolved by
the no less formidable obstacle of a too inveterate memory: and there have been such,-where a thought or
an image once impressed is never erased. In Art it is
certainly an advantage to be able sometimes to forget. Nor is this a new notion; for Horace, it seems,
must have had the same, or he would hardly have
recommended so long a time as nine years for the
revision of a poem. That Titian also was not unaware of the advantage of forgetting is recorded by
Bosehini, who relates, that, during the progress of a
work, he was in the habit of occasionally turning it to
the wall, until it had somewhat faded from his memory, so that, on resuming his labor, he might see with
fresh eyes; when (to use his expression) he would
criticize the picture with as much severity as his worst
enemy. If, instead of the picture on the canvas, Boschini had referred to that in his mind, as what Titian
sought to forget, he would have been, as we think,
more correct. This practice is not uncommon with
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LECTURES ON ART.
Artists, though few, perhaps, are aware of its real
object.
It has doubtless the appearance of a singular anom aly in the judgment, that it should not always be
as correct in relation to our own works as to those of
another. Yet nothing is more common than perfect
truth ill the one case, and complete delusion in the
other. Our surprise, however, would be sensibly dimin ished, if we considered that the reasoning or reflective
faculties have nothing to do with either case. It is the
Principle of which we have been speaking, the life,
or truth  within, answering to the life, or rather its
sign, before us, that here sits in judgment.  Still the
question remains unanswered; and again we are asked,
Why is it that our own works do not always respond
with equal  veracity?   Simply because we  do  not
always see them, - that is, as they are, - but, looking
as it were through them, see only their originals in the
mind; the mind here acting, instead of being acted
upon.  And thus it is, that an Artist may suppose his
conception realized, while that which gave life to it in
his mind is outwardly wanting. But let time erase, as
we know it often does, the mental image, and its embodied representative will then appear to its author as
it is, - true or false. There is one ease, however, where
the effect cannot deceive; namely, where it comes upon
us as from a foreign source; where our own seems
no longer ours. This, indeed, is rare; and powerful
must be the pictured Truth, that, as soon as embodied,
shall thus displace its own original.
Nor does it in any wise affect the essential nature of
the Principle in question, or that of the other Characteristics, that the effect which follows is not always of a
pleasurable kind; it may even be disagreeable.  What
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ART.
we contend for is simply its reality; the character of the
perception, like that of every other truth, depending on
the individual character of the percipient.  The conmmon truth of existence in a living person, for instance,
may be to us either a matter of interest or indifference,
nay, even of disgust.  So also may it be with what
is true in Art. Temperament, ignorance, cultivation,
vulgarity, and refinement have all, in a greater or less
degree, an influence in our impressions; so that any
reality may be to us either an offence or a pleasure,
yet still a reality. In Art, as in Nature, the True is
imperative, and must be felt, even where a timid, a
proud, or a selfish motive refuses to acknowledge it.
These last remarks very naturally lead us to another
subject, and one of no minor importance; we mean,
the education of an Artist; on this, however, we shall
at present add but a few words. We use the word
educlation in its widest sense, as involving not only the
growth and expansion of the intellect, but a corresponding developement of the moral being; for the wisdom
of the intellect is of little worth, if it be not in harmony with the higher spiritual truth. Nor will a moderate, incidental cultivation suffice to him who would
become a great Artist. He must sound no less than
the full depths of his being ere he is fitted for his calling; a calling in its very condition lofty, demanding
an agent by whom, from the actual, living world, is to
be wrought an imagined consistent world of Art, - -not
fantastic, or objectless, but having a purpose, and that
purpose, in all its figments, a distinct relation to man's
nature, and all that pertains to it, from the humblest
emotion to the highest aspiration; the circle that
bounds it being that only which bounds his spirit, -
even the confines of that higher world, where ideal
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LECTURES ON ART.
glimpses of angelic forms are sometimes permitted to
his sublimated vision. Art may, in truth, be called the
human  world; for it is so far the work of man, that
his beneficent Creator has especially endowed him
with the powers to construct it; and, if so, surely not
for his mere amusement, but as a part (small though it
be) of that mighty plan which the Infinite Wisdom
has ordained for the evolution of the human spirit;
whereby is intended, not alone the enlargement of his
sphere of pleasure, but of his higher capacities of adoration;- as if, in the gift, he had said unto man,
Thou shalt know me by the powers I have given thee.
The calling of an Artist, then, is one of no common
responsibility; and it well becomes him to consider at
the threshold, whether he shall assume it for high and
noble purposes, or for the low and licentious.
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FORM.
THE subject proposed for the following discourse is
the Human Form; a subject, perhaps, of all others
connected with Art, the most obscured by vague theories. It is one, at least, of such acknowledged difficulty as to constrain the writer to confess, that he enters upon it with more distrust than hope of success.
Should he succeed, however, in disencumbering this
perplexed theme of some of its useless dogmas, it will
be quite as much as he has allowed himself to expect.
The object, therefore, of the present attempt will be
to show, first, that the notion of one or more standard Forms, which shall in all cases serve as exemplars,
is essentially false, and of impracticable application for.
any true purpose of Art; secondly, that the only approach to Science, which the subject admits, is in a
few general rules relating to Stature, and these, too,
serving  rather  as convenient expedients than exact
guides, inasmuch as, in most cases, they allow of
indefinite variations; and, thirdly, that the only efficient Rule must be found in the Artist's mind,-in
those intuitive Powers, which are above, and beyond,
both the senses and the understanding; which, nevertheless, are so far from precluding knowledge, as, on 
LECTURES ON ART.
the contrary, to require, as their effective condition, the
widest intimacy with the things external, - without
which their very existence must remain unknown to
the Artist himself.
Supposing, then, certain standard Forms to have
been admitted, it may not be amiss to take a brief
view of the nature of the Being to whom they are in tended to be applied; and to consider them more espe cially as auxiliaries to the Artist.
In the first place, we observe, that the purpose of
Art is not to represent any given number of men, but
the Human Race; and so that the representation shall
affect us, not indeed as living to the senses, but as true
to the mind. In order to this, there must be all in the
imitation (though it be but hinted) which the mind
will recognize as true to the human being: hence the
first business of the Artist is to become acquainted
with his subject in all its properties. He then naturally inquires, what is its general characteristic; and
his own consciousness informs him, that, besides an
animal nature, there is also a moral intelligence, and
that they together form the man. This important truism (we say important, for it seems to have been not
seldom overlooked) makes the foundation of all his
future observations; nor can he advance a step without continual reference to this double nature.   We
find him accordingly in the daily habit of mentally distinguishing this person from that, as a moral being,
and of assigning to each a separate character; and this
not voluntarily, but simply because he cannot avoid it.
Yet, by what does he presume to judge of strangers?
He will probably answer, By their general exterior
And what is the inference? There can be but one;
namely, that there must be- at least to him-  some
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FORM.
efficient correspondence between the physical and the
moral. This is so plain, that the wonder is, how it ever
came to be doubted. Nor is it directly denied, except
by those who fromn habitual disgust reject the guesswork of the various pretenders to scientific systems;
yet even these, no less than others, do practically admit it in their common intercourse with the world.
And it cannot be otherwise; for what the Creator has
joined must have some affinity, although the palpable
signs may elude our cognizance. And that they do
elude it, except perhaps in a very slight degree, is
actually the case, as is well proved by the signal failure of all attempts to reduce them to a science; for
neither diagram nor axiom has ever yet corrected an
instinctive impression. But man does not live by
science; he feels, acts, and judges right in a thousand
things without the consciousness of any rule by which
he so feels, acts, or judges.   And, happily for him,
he has a surer guide than human science in that
unknown  Power  within  him,   without which  he
had been without knowledge. But of this we shall
have occasion to speak again in another part of our
discourse.
Though the medium through which the soul acts
be, as we have said, elusive to the senses,   in so far
as to be irreducible to any distinct form,- it is not
therefore the less real, as every one may verify by his
own experience; and, though seemingly invisible, it
must nevertheless, constituted as we are, act through the
physical, and a physical medium expressly constructed for its peculiar action; nay, it does this continually,
without our confounding for a moment the soul with its
instrument. Who can look into the human eye, and
doubt of an influence not of the body? The form and
10o
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LECTURES ON ART.
color leave but a momentary impression, or, if we remnember them, it is only as we remember the glass
through which we have read the dark problems of the
sky.  But in this mysterious organ we see not even the
signs of its mystery. We see, in truth, nothing; for
what is there has neither form, nor symbol, nor any
thing reducible to a sensuous distinctness; and yet who
can look illtO it, and not be conscious of a real though
invisible presence? In the eye of a brute, we see only
a part of the animal; it gives us little beyond the
palpable outward; at most, it is but the focal point of
its fierce, or gentle, affectionate, or timorous character,
-the character of the species. But in man, neither
gentleness nor fierceness can be more than as relative
conditions,- the outward moods of his unseen spirit;
while the spirit itself, that daily and hourly sends forth
its good and evil, to take shape from the body, still sits
in darkness. Yet have we that which can surely reach
it; even our own spirit.  By this it is that we can
enter into another's soul, sound its very depths, and
bring up his dark thoughts, nay, place them before
him till he starts at himself; and more, -  it is by this
we know that even the tangible, audible, visible world
is not more real than a spiritual intercourse. And
yet without the physical organ who can hold it? We
can never indeed understand, but we may not doubt,
that which has its power of proof in a single act of
consciousnesss. Nay, we may add that we cannot
even conceive of a soul without a correlative form,though it be in the abstract; and vice versa.
For, among the many impossibilities, it is not the
least to look upon a living human form as a thing;
in its pictured copies, as already shown in a former
discourse, it may be a thing, and a beautiful thing;
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FORM.
but the moment we conceive of it as living, if it show
not a soul, we give it one by a moral necessity; and
according to the outward will be the spirit with which
we endow it. No poetic being, supposed of our species, ever lived to the imagination without some indication of the moral; it is the breath of its life:
and this is also true in the converse; if there be but
a hint of it, it will instantly clothe itself in a human shape; for the mind cannot separate them.  In
the whole range of the poetic creations of the great
master of truth,- we need hardly say Shakspeare,
-  not an instance can be found where this condition of
life      is ever wanting; his men  and  women  all have
souls. So, too, when he peoples the air, though he describe no form, he never leaves these creatures of the
brain without a shape, for he will sometimes, by a single touch of the moral, enable us to supply one. Of
this we have a striking instance in one of his most unsubstantial creations, the "delicate Ariel."  Not an allusion to its shape or figure is made throughout the
play;      yet we assign it a form on its very first entrance,
as soon as Prospero speaks of its refusing to comply
with t    he " abhorred commands" of the witch, Sycorax.
And again, in the fifth act, when Ariel, after recounting
the sufferings of the wretched usurper and his followers, gently adds,
"Your charm so strongly works them,
That, if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender."
On which Prospero remarks,      "I Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions? "
Now, whether Shakspeare intended it or not, it is not
possible after this for the reader to think of Ariel but in
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LECTURES ON ART.
a human form; for slight as these hints are, if they do
not indicate the moral affections, they at least imply
something akin to them, which in a manner compels
us to invest the gentle Spirit with a general likeness to
our own physical exterior, though, perhaps, as indistinct
as the emotion that called for it.
We have thus considered the human being in his
complex condition, of body and spirit, or physical and
moral; showing the impossibility of even thinking of
him in the one, to the exclusion of the other. We may,
indeed, successively think first of the form, and then of
the moral character, as we may think of any one part
of either analytically; but we cannot think of the fhuman
being except as a whole.  It follows, therefore, as a consequence, that no imitation of man can be true which
is not addressed to us in this double condition. And
here it may be observed, that in Artthere is this additional requirement, that there be no discrepancy between the form and the character intended, - or rather,
that the form must express the character, or it expresses
nothing: a necessity which is far from being general
in actual nature. But of this hereafter.
Let us now endeavour to form some general notion
of Man in his various aspects, as presented by the myriads which people the earth. But whose imagination is
equal to the task, - to the setting in array before it the
countless multitudes, each individual in his proper form,
his proper character? Were this possible, we should
stand amazed at the interminable differences, the hideous variety; and that, too, no less in the moral, than in
the physical; nay, so opposite and appalling in the
former as hardly to be figured by a chain of animals,
taking for the extremes the fierce and filthy hyena and
the inoffensive lamb. This is man in the concrete, -
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FORM.
to which, according to some, is to be applied the abstract Ideal!
Now let us attempt to conceive of a being that shall
represent all the diversities of mind, affections, and dispositions, that fleck this heterogeneous mass of humanity, and then to conceive of a Form that shall be in
such perfect affinity with it as to indicate them all.
The bare statement of the proposition shows its absurdity. Yet this must be the office of a Standard Form;
and this it must do, or it will be a falsehood. Nor
should we find it easier with any given number, with
twenty, fifty, nay, an hundred (so called) generic forms.
We do not hesitate to affirm, that, were it possible, it
would be quite as easy with one as with a thousand.
But to this it may be  replied, that the Standard
Form was never intended to represent the vicious or
degraded, but man in his most perfect developement of
mind, affeictions, and body. This is certainly narrowing its office, and, unfortunately, to the representing of
but one man; consequently, of no possible use beyond
to the Painter or Sculptor of Humanity, since every
repetition of this perfect form would be as the reflection of one multiplied by mirrors. But such repetitions, it may be further answered, were never contemplated, that Form being given only as an exemplar of
the highest, to serve as a guide in our approach to excellence; as we could not else know to a certainty to
what degree of elevation our conceptions might rise.
Still, in that case its use would be limited to a single
object, that is, to itself, its own perfectness; it would
not aid the Artist in the intermediate ascent to it,unless it contained within itself all the gradations of
human character; which no one will pretend.
But let us see how far it is possible to realize the
Idea of a perfect H-uman Form.
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LECTURES ON ART.
We have already seen that the mere physical structure is not man, but only a part; the Idea of man including also an internal moral being.   The external,
then, in an actually disjoined state, cannot, strictly speaking, be the human form, but only a diagram of it. It
is, in fact, but a partial condition, becoming human
only when united with the internal moral; which, in
proof of the union, it must of necessity indicate. If
we would have a true Idea of it, therefore, it must be
as a whole; consequently, the perfect physical exterior
must have, as an essential part, the perfect moral.
Now come two important questions. First, In what
consists Moral Perfection? We use the word moral
here (from a want in our language) in its most conmprehensive sense, as including the spiritual and the intellectual. With respect to that part of our moral being which pertains to the affections, in all their high relations to God and man, we have, it is true, a sure and
holy guide. In a Christian land, the humblest individual may answer as readily as the most profound scholar,
and express its perfection in the single word, Holiness. But what will be the reply in regard to the Intellect?   For what is a perfect Intellect?  Is it the
Dialectic, the Speculative, or the Imaginative? Or,
rather, would it not include them all?
We proceed next to the Physical. What, then, constitutes its Perfection? Here, it might seem, there can
be no difficulty, and the reply will probably be in naming all the excellent qualities in our animal nature, such
as strength, agility, fleetness, with every other that can be
thought of. The bare enumeration of these few qualities may serve to show the nature of the task; yet a
physically perfect form requires them all; none must be
omitted; it would else be imperfect; nay, they must
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FORM.
not only be there, but all be developed in their highest
degrees.  We might here exclaim with Hamlet, though
in a very different sense,
"A combination and a form indeed!"
And yet there is no other way to express physical
perfection. But can it be so expressed? The reader
must reply for himself. We will, however, suppose it
possible; still the task is incomplete without the adjustment of these to the perfect Moral, in the highest known degrees of its several elements. To those
who can imagine such a form as shall be the sure
exponent of such a moral being,-and  such it must
be, or it will be nothing,- -we leave the task of constructing this universal exemplar for multitudinous man.
We may add, however, one remark; that, supposing
it possible thus to concentrate, and with equal prominence, all the qualities of the species into one individual, it can only be done by supplanting Providence,
in other words, by virtually overruling the great principle of subordination so visibly impressed on all created
life. For although, as we have elswhere observed, there
can be no sound mind (and the like may be affirmed of
the whole man), which is deficient in any one essential,
it does not therefore follow, that each of these essentials may not be almost indefinitely differenced in the
degrees of their developemenit without impairing the
human integrity. And such is the fact in actual nature; nor does this in any wise affect the individual
unity, - as will be noticed hereafter.
We will now briefly examine the pretensions of what
are called the Generic Forms. And here we are met
by another important characteristic of the human being,
namely, his essential individuality.
It is true that the human family, so called, is divided
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LECTURES ON ART.
into many distinct races, having each its peculiar conformation, color, and so forth, which together constitute
essential differences; but it is to be remembered that
these essentials are all physical; and so far they are
properly generic, as implying a difference in kind. But,
though a striking difference is also observable in their
moral being, it is by no means of the same nature with
that which marks their physical condition, the difference in the moral being only of degree; for, however
fierce, brutal, stupid, or cunning, or gentle, generous, or
heroic, the same characteristics may each be paralleled
among ourselves; nay, we could hardly name a vice, a
passion, or a virtue, in Asia, Africa, or America, that
has not its echo in civilized Europe. And what is the
inference? That climate and circumstance, if such
are the causes of the physical variety, have no controlling power, except in degree, over the Moral. Does
not this undeniable fact, then, bring us to the fair conclusion, that the moral being has no genera? To affirm
otherwise would be virtually to deny its responsible
condition; since the law of its genus must be paramount to all other laws,- to education, government,
religion. Nor can the result be evaded, except by the
absurd supposition of generic responsibilities! To us,
therefore, it seems conclusive that a moral being, as a
free agent, cannot be subject to a generic law; nor
could he now be- what every man feels himself to be,
in spite of his theory - the fearful architect of his own
destiny. In one sense, indeed, we may admit a human
genus, - such as every man must be in his individual
entireness.
Man has been called a microcosm, or little world.
And such, however mean and contemptible to others,
is man to himself; nay, such he must ever be, whether
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FiORiI.
he wills it or not. He may hate, he may despise, yet he
cannot but cling to that without which he is not; he is
the centre and the circle, be it of pleasure or of pain;
nor can he be other. Touch him with misery, and he
becomes paramount to the whole world, -to a thou sand worlds; for the beauty and the glory of the uni verse are as nothing to him who is all darkness. Then
it is that he will feel, should he have before doubted,
that he is not a mere part, a fraction, of his kind, but
indeed a world; and though little in one sense, yet a
world of awful magnitude in its capacity of suffering.
In one word, Man is a whole, an Individual.
If the preceding argument be admitted, it will be
found to have relieved the student of two delusive
dogmas,-  and the  more delusive, as carrying with
them a plausible show of science.
As to the flowery declamations about Beauty, they
would not here be noticed, were they not occasionally
met with in works of high merit, and not unfrequently
mixed up with philosophic truth. If they have any
definite meaning, it amounts to this,- that the Beautiful is the summit of every possible excellence! The
extravagance, not to say absurdity, of such a proposition, confounding, as it does, all received distinctions,
both in the moral and the natural world, needs no comment. It is hardly to be believed, however, that the
writers in question could have deliberately intended
this. It is more probable, that, in so expressing themselves, they were only giving vent to an enthusiastic
feeling, which we all know is generally most vague
when associated with admiration; it is not therefore
strange that the ardent expression of it should partake
of its vagueness. Among the few critical works of
authority in which the word is so used, we may men                 1!.
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I,ECTURES ON ART.
tion the (in many respects admirable) Discourses of
Sir Joshua Reynolds, where we find the following
sentence:-" The beauty of the Hercules is one, of the
Gladiator another, of the Apollo another; which, of
course, would present three different Ideas of Beauty."
If this had been said of various animals, differing in
kind, the term so applied might, perhaps, have been
appropriate. But the same term is here applied to objects of the same kind, differing not essentially even in
age; we say age, inasmuch as in the three great divisions, or periods. of human life, namely, childhood,
youth, and maturity, the characteristic conditions of
each are so essentially distinct, as virtually to separate
them into positive kinds.
But it is no less idle than invidious to employ our
time in overturning the errors of others; if we establish Truth, they will fall of themselves. There cannot
be two right sides to any question; and, if we are right,
what is opposed to us must of necessity he wrong.
Whether we are so or not must be determined by those
who admit or reject what has already been advanced
on the subject of Beauty, in the first Discourse. It
will be remembered, that, in the course of our argument
there, we were brought to the conclusion, that Beauty
was the Idea of a certain physical condition, both general and ultimate; general, as presiding over objects of
many kinds, and ultimate, as being the perfection of
that peculiar condition in each, and therefore not applicable to, or representing, its degrees in any; which, as
approximations only to the one supreme Idea, should
truly be distinguished by other terms. Accordingly,
we cannot, strictly speaking, say of two persons of
the same age and sex, differing from each other, that
they are equally beautiful. We hear this, indeed, al
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RORM,
most daily; it is nevertheless not the true expression of
the actual impression made on the speaker, though he
may not take the trouble to examine and compare
them. But let him do so, and we doubt not that he
would find the one to rise (in however slight a degree)
above the other; and, if he did not assign a different
term to the lower, it would be only because he was
not in the habit of marking, or did not think it
worth his while to note, such nice distinctions.
If there is a first and a last to any thing, the intermediates can be neither one nor the other; and, if we
so name them, we speak falsely. It is no less so with
Beauty, which, being at the head, or first in a series,
admits no transference of its title. We mean, if speaking strictly; which, however, we freely acknowledge,
no one can; but that is owing to the insufficiency of
language, which in no dialect could supply a hundredth
part of the terms needed to mark every minute shade
of difference. Perhaps no subject requiring a wider
nomenclature has one so contracted; and the consequence is, that no subject is more obscured by vague
expressions.  But it is the business of the Artist, if he
cannot form to himself the corresponding terms, to be
prepared at least to perceive and to note these various
shades. We do not say, that an actual acquaintance
with all the nice distinctions is an essential requisite,
but only that it will not be altogether useless to be
aware of their existence; at any rate, it may serve to
shield him from the annoyance of false criticism, when
censured for wanting beauty where its presence would
have been an impertinence.
Before we quit the subject, it may not be amiss to
observe, that, in the preceding remarks, our object has
been not so much to insist on correct speaking as correct
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I,ECTURI',S  ON  ARrT.
thinking. The poverty of language, as already admitted, has made the former impossible; but, though
constrained in this, as in many other cases where a
subordinate is put for its principal, to apply the term
Beautiful to its various degrees, yet a right apprehension of what Beauty is may certainly prevent its misapplication as to other objects having no relation to it.
Nor is this a small matter where the avoiding of confusion is an object desirable; and there is clearly some
difference between an approach to precision and utter
vagueness.
We have now to consider how far the Correspondence between the outward form and the inward being,
which is assumed by the Artist, is supported by fact.
In a fair statement, then, of facts, it cannot be denied
that with the mass of men the outward intimation of
character is certainly very faint, with many obscure, and
with some ambiguous, while with others it has often
seemed to express the very reverse of the truth. Perhaps a stronger instance of the latter could hardly
occur than that cited in a former discourse in illustration of the physical relation of Beauty; where it
was shown that the first and natural impression from
a beautiful form was not only displaced, but completely reversed, by the revolting discovery of a moral discrepancy. But while we admit, on the threshold, that
the Correspondence in question cannot be sustained as
universally obvious, it is, nevertheless, not apprehended
that this admission can affect our argument, which,
though in part grounded on special cases of actual
coincidence, is yet supported by other evidences, which
lead us to regard all such discrepancies rather as exceptions, and as so many deviations from the original
law of our nature, nay, which lead us also rationally
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FORAIM.
to infer at least a future, potential correspondence in
every individual. To the past, indeed, we cannot
appeal; neither can the past be cited against us, since
little       is known of the early history of our race but a
chroni cle of  their actions; of their outward appearance
scarcely any thing, certainly not enough to warrant
a decision one way or the other. Should we assume,
then, the Correspondence as a primeval law, who shall
gainsay       it?    It is not, however,  so asserted.   We
may nevertheless hold it as a matter of faith; and
simply as such it is here submitted. But faith of any
kind must have some ground to rest on, either real or
supposed, either that of authority or of inference. Our
ground of faith, then, in the present instance, is in the
universal  desire amongst men to realize the Correspondence. Nothing is more common than, on hearing or
reading of any remarkable character, to find this instinctive craving, if we may so term it, instantly
awakened, and actively employed in picturing to the
imagination some corresponding form; nor is any disappointment more general, than that which follows the
detection of a discrepancy on actual acquaintance.
Indeed,  we can hardly deem it rash, should we rest the
validity of this universal desire on the common experience of any individual, taken at random, - provided
only that he has a particle of imagination. Nor is its
action        dependent on our caprice or will.   Ask  any
person of ordinary cultivation, not to say refinement,
how it is with him, when his imagination has not
been forestalled by some definite fact; whether he has
never        found himself involuntarily associating the good
with the beautiful, the energetic with the strong, the
dignified with the ample, or the majestic with the lofty;
th    e   refined with the delicate, the modest with the come
11I
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LECTURES ON ART.
ly; the base with the ugly, the brutal with the misshapen, the fierce with the coarse and muscular, and so
on; there being scarcely a shade of character to which
the imagination does not affix some corresponding
form.
In a still more striking form may we find the evidence of the law supposed, if we turn to the young,
and especially to those of a poetic temperament, -to
the sanguine, the open, and confiding, the creatures of
impulse, who reason best when trusting only to the
spontaneous suggestions of feeling. What is more
common than implicit faith in their youthful daydreams, - a faith that lives, though dream after dream
vanish into common air when the sorcerer Fact touches
their eyes? And whence this pertinacious faith that
will not die, but from a spring of life, that neither custom nor the dry understanding can destroy?   Look
at the same Youth at a more advanced age, when the
refining intellect has mixed with his affections, adding
thought and sentiment to every thing attractive, converting all things fair to things also of good report.
Let us turn, at the same time, to one still more advanced, - even so far as to have entered into the conventional valley of dry bones, -one whom the world
is preparing, by its daily practical lessons, to enlighten
with unbelief. If we see them together, perhaps we
shall hear the senior scoff at his younger companion as
a poetic dreamer, as a hunter after phantoms that
never were, nor could be, in nature: then may follow a
homily on the virtues of experience, as the only security against disappointment. But there are some hearts
that never suffer the mind to grow old. And such we
may suppose that of the dreamer. If he is one, too,
who is accustomed to look into himself, -not as a
126 
FORM.
reasoner, - but with an abiding faith in his nature, -
we shall, perhaps, hear him reply, - Experience, it is true,
has often brought me disappointment; yet I cannot distrust those dreams, as you call them, bitterly as I have
felt their passing off; for I feel the truth of the source
whence they come. They could not have been so responded to by my living nature, were they but phantoms; they could not have taken such forms of truth,
but from a possible ground.
By the word poetic here, we do not mean the visionary or fanciful,- for there may be much fancy where
there is no poetic feeling, - but that sensibility to harmony which marks the temperament of the Artist, and
which is often most active in his earlier years. And we
refer to such natures, not only as being more peculiarly
alive to all existing affinities, but as never satisfied with
those merely which fall within their experience; ever
striving, on the contrary, as if impelled by instinct, to
supply the deficiency wherever it is felt. From such
nminds proceed what are called romantic imaginings,
but what we would call- without intending a paradox
-the romance of Truth. For it is impossible that the
mind should ever have this perpetual craving for the
False.
But the desire in question is not confined to any particular age or temperament, though it is, doubtless, more
ardent in some than in others.   Perhaps it is only
denied to the habitually vicious. For who, not hardened by vice, has ever looked upon a sleeping child in its
first bloom of beauty, and seen its pure, fresh hues, its
ever varying, yet according lines, moulding and suffusing, in their playful harmony, its delicate features,
- who, not callous, has ever looked upon this exquisite creature, (so like what a poet might fancy of
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LECTURES ON ART.
visible music, or embodied odors,) and has not felt
himself carried, as it were, out of this present world,
in quest of its moral counterpart?  It seems to us
perfect; we desire no change,  not a line or a hue
but as it is; and yet we have a paradoxical feeling of a
want,-  for it is all physical; and we supply that want
by endowing the child with some  angelic attribute.
Why do we this?  To make it a whole, -  not to the
eye, but to the mind.
Nor is this general disposition to find a coincidence
between a fair exterior and moral excellence altogether
unsupported by facts of, at least, a partial realization.
For, though a perfect correspondence cannot be looked for in a state where all else is imperfect, he is
most unfortunate who has never met with many, and
very near, approximations to the desired union. But
we have a still stronger assurance of their predetermined affinity in the peculiar activity of this desire
where there is no such approximation. For example,
when we meet with an instance of the higher virtues
in an unattractive form, how natural the wish that that
form were beautiful! So, too, on beholding a beautiful
person, how common the wish that the mind it clothed
were also good! What are these wishes but unconscious retrospects to our primitive nature? And why
have we them, if they be not the workings of that
universal law, which gathers to itself all scattered affinities, bodying them forth in the never-ending forms
of harmony, -in the flower, in the tree, in the bird, and
the animal,-if they be not the evidence of its continuous, though fruitless, effort to evolve too in man its last
consummate work, by the perfect confluence of the
body and the spirit? In this universal yearning (for it
seems to us no less) to connect the physical with its
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FORM.
appropriate moral, - to say nothing of the mysterious
intuition that points to the appropriate, -is there not
something like a clew to what was originally natural?
And, again, in the never-ceasing strivings of the two
great elements of our being, each to supply the deficiencies of the other, have we not also an intimation
of something that once was, that is now lost, and would
be recovered? Surely there must be more in this than
a mere concernment of Art; -if, indeed, there be not
in Art more of the prophetic than we are now aware
of. To us it seems that this irrepressible desire to find
the good in the beautiful, and the beautiful in the good,
implies an end, both beyond and above the trifling
present; pointing to deep and dark questions, -to no
less than where the mysteries which surround us will
meet their solution.  One great mystery we see in part
resolving itself here. We see the deformities of the
body sometimes giving place to its glorious tenant.
Some of us may have witnessed this, and felt the spiritual presence gaining daily upon us, till the outward
shape seemed lost in its brightness, leaving no trace in
the memory.
Whether the position we have endeavoured to establish be disputed or not, the absolute correspondence between the Moral and the Physical is, at any rate, the essential ground of the Plastic arts; which could not else
exist, since through Form alone they have to convey,
not only thought and emotion, but distinct and permanent character. For our own part, we cannot but con
sider their success in this as having settled the question.
From the view here presented, what is the inference
in relation to Art? That Man, as a compound being,
cannot be represented without an indication as well of
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LECTURES ON ART.
Mind as of body; that, by a natural law which we
cannot resist, we do continually require that they be to
us as mutual exponents, the one of the other; and,
finally, that, as a responsible being, and therefore a free
agent, he cannot be truly represented, either to the memory or to the imagination, but as an Individual.
It would seem, also, from the indefinite varieties ill
men, though occasioned only by the mere difference of
degrees in their common faculties and powers, that the
coincidence of an equal developement of all was never intended in nature; but that some one or more
of them, becoming dominant, should distinguish the
individual.   It follows, therefore, if this be the case,
that only through the phase of such predominance can
the human being ever be contemplated. To the Artist,
then, it becomes the only safe ground; the startingpoint from whence to ascend to a true Ideal, - which is
no other than a partial individual truth made whole in
the mind: and thus, instead of one Ideal, and that
baseless, he may have a thousand, - nay, as many as
there are marked or apprehensible individuals.
But we must not be understood as confining Art to
actual portraits. Within such limits there could not be
Art, - certainly not Art in its highest sense; we should
have in its place what would be little better than a
doubtful empiricism; since the most elevated subject,
in the ablest hands, would depend, of necessity, on the
chance success of a search after models. And, supposing that we bring together only the rarest forms,
still those forms, simply as circumscribed portraits, and
therefore insulated parts, would instantly close every
avenue to the imagination; for such is the law of the
imagination, that it cannot admit, or, in other words,
recognize as a whole, that which remains unmodified
130 
FORM.
by some imaginative power, which alone can give
unity to separate and distinct objects. Yet, as it regards man, all true Art does, and must, find its proper
object in the Individual: as without individuality there
could not be character, nor without character, the
human being.
But here it may be asked, In what manner, if we
resort not to actual portrait, is the Individual Man to
be expressed?  We  answer, By carrying out the natural individual predominantfragment, which is visible to
us in actual Form, to its full, consistent developement.
The Individual is thus idealized, when, in the complete
accordance of all its parts, it is presented to the mind
as a whole.
When we apply the term frar,ment to a human beinig, we do not mean in relation to his species, (in regard to which we have already shown him to be a distinct whole,) but in relation to the Idea, to which his
predominant characteristic suggests itself but as a partial manifestation, and made partial because counteracted by some inadequate exponent, or else modified by
other, though minor, characteristics.
How this is effected must be left to the Artist himself. It is impossible to prescribe a rule that would be
to much purpose for any one who stands in need of
such instruction; if his own mind does not suggest the
mode, it would not even be intelligible.  Perhaps our
meaning, however, may be made more obvious, if we
illustrate it by example. We would refer, then, to the
restoration of a statue, (a thing often done with success,)
where, from a single fragment, the unknown Form has
been completely restored, and so remoulded, that the
parts added are in perfect unity with the suggestive
fragment. Now the parts wanting having never been
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LECTURES ON ART.
seen1, this cannot be called a mere act of the memory.
Nevertheless, it is not from nothing that man can produce even the semblance of any thing. The materials
of the Artist are the work of Him who created the Artist
himself; but over these, which his senses and mind are
given him to observe and collect, he has a delegated
power, for the purpose of combining and modifying, as
unlimited as mysterious. It is by the agency of this
intuitive and assimilating Power, elsewhere spoken of,
that he is able to separate the essential from the accidental, to proceed also from a part to the whole; thus
educing, as it were, an Ideal nature from the germs of
the Actual.
Nor does the necessity of referring to Nature preclude
the Imaginative, or any other class of Art that rests its
truth in the desires of the mind. In an especial manner must the personification of Sentiment, of the Abstract, which owe their interest to the common desire of
rendering permanent, by embodying, that which has
given us pleasure, take its starting-point from the Actual; from  something  which, by universal association
or particular expression, shall recall the Sentiment,
Thought, or Time, and serve as their exponents; there
being scarcely an object in Nature which the spirit of
man has not, as it were, impressed with sympathy, and
linked with his being.  Of this, perhaps, we could not
have a more striking example than in the Aurora of
Michael Angelo; which, if not universal, is not so only
because the faculty addressed is by no means common.
For, as the peculiar characteristic of the Imaginative is
its suggestive power, the effect of this figure must of
necessity differ in different minds. As in many other
cases, there must needs be at least some degree of sympathy with the mind that imagined it, in order to any
13'2 
FORM.
impression; and the degree in which that is made will
always be in proportion to the congeniality between the
agent and the recipient. Should it appear, then, to any
one as a thing of no meaning, it is not therefore conclusive that the Artist has failed. For, if there be but
one in a thousand to whose mind it recalls the deep
stillness of Night, gradually broken by the awakening
stir of Day, with its myriad forms of life emerging into
motion, while their lengthened shadows, undistinguished from their objects, seem to people the earth with gigantic beings; then the dim, gray monotony of color
transforming them to stone, yet leaving them in motion,
till the whole scene becomes awful and mysterious as
with moving statues; -if there be but one in ten thousand who shall have thus imagined, as he stands before
this embodied Dawn, then is it, for every purpose of
feeling through the excited imagination, as true and
real as if instinct with life, and possessing the mind by
its living will. Nor is the number so rare of those who
have thus felt the suggestive sorcery of this sublime
Statue. But the mind so influenced must be one to respond to sublime emotions, since such was the emotion
which inspired the Artist. If susceptible only to the
gay and beautiful, it will not answer. For this is not
the Aurora of golden purple, of laughing flowers and
jewelled dew-drops; but the dark Enchantress, enthroned on rocks, or craggy mountains, and whose proper
empire is the shadowy confines of light and darkness.
How all this is done, we shall not attempt to explain.
Perhaps the Artist himself could not answer; as to the
quo modo in every particular, we doubt if it were possible to satisfy another. He may tell us, indeed, that
having imagined certain appearances and effects peculiar to the Time, he endeavoured to imbue, as it were,
12 
LECTURES ON ART.
some human form with the sentiment they awakened,
so that the embodied sentiment should associate itself
in the spectator's mind with similar images; and further
endeavoured, that the fornt selected should, by its air,
attitude, and gigantic proportions, also excite the ideas
of vastness, solemnity, and repose; adding to this that
indefinite expression, which, while it is felt to act, still
leaves no trace of its indistinct action.  So far, it is true,
he may retrace the process; but of the informing life
that quickened his fiction, thus presenting the presiding
Spirit of that ominous Time, he knows nothing but that
he felt it, and imparted it to the insensible marble.
And now the question will naturally occur, Is all
that has been done by the learned in Art, to establish certain canons of Proportion, utterly useless? By
no means. If rightly applied, and properly considered,
- as it seems to us they must have been by the great
artists of Antiquity,- as expedient fictions, they undoubtedly deserve at least a careful examination. And,
inasmuch as they are the result of a comparison of
the finest actual forms through successive ages, and
as they indicate the general limits which Nature has
been observed to assign to her noblest works, they
are so far to be valued. But it must not be forgotten,
that, while a race, or class, may be generally marked
by a certain average height and breadth, or curve and
angle, still is every class and race composed of Individuals, who must needs, as such, differ from each other;
and though the difference be slight, yet is it "the little
more, or the little less," which often separates the great
from the mean, the wise from the foolish, in human
character; - nay, the widest chasms are sometimes
made by a few lines: so that, in every individual case,
the limits in question are rather to be departed from,
than strictly adhered to.
134 
FORM.
The canon of the Schools is easily mastered by
every student who has only memory; yet of the hundreds who apply it, how few do so to any purpose!
Some ten or twenty, perhaps, call up life from the quiarry, and flesh and blood from the canvas; the rest
conjure in vain with their canon; they call up nothing
but the dead measures.  Whence the difference?  The
answer is obvious,-  In the different minds they each
carry to their labors.
But let us trace, with the Artist, the beginning and
progress of a successful work; a picture, for instance.
His method of proceeding may enable us to ascertain
how far he is assisted by the science, so called, of which
we are speaking.  He adjusts the height and breadth of
his figures according to the canon, either by the division of heads or faces, as most convenient. By these
means, he gets the general divisions in the easiest and
most expeditious way. But could he not obtain them
without such aid? He would answer, Yes, by the eye
alone; but it would be a waste of time were he so to
proceed, since he would have to do, and undo, perhaps
twenty times, before he could erect this simple scaffolding; whereas, by applying these rules, whose general
truth is already admitted, he accomplishes his object in
a few minutes. Here we admit the use of the canon,
and admire the facility with which it enables his hand,
almost without the aid of a thought, thus to lay out
his work. But here ends the science; and here begins
what may seem to many the work of mutilation: a
leg, an arm, a trunk, is increased, or diminished; line
after line is erased, or retrenched, or extended, again and
again, till not a trace remains of the original draught.
If he is asked now by what he is guided in these in numerable changes, he can only answer, By the feeling
135 
LLECTURES ON ART:
within me. Nor canli he better tell lIowv he knows when he
has hit thle mark. The same feeling responds to its truth;
and he repeats his attempts until that is satisfied.
It would appear, then, that in the Mind alone is to be
found the true or ultimate Rule, - if, indeed, that can
be called a rule which changes its measure with every
change of character. It is therefore all-important that
every aid be sought which may in any way contribute
to the due developement of the mental powers; and
no one will doubt the efficiency here of a good general
education. As to the course of study, that must be
left in a great measure to be determined by the student; it will be best indicated by his own natural
wants.  We  may observe, however, that no species of
knowledge can ever be oppressive to real genius, whose
peculiar privilege is that of subordinating all things to
the paramount desire. But it is not likely that a mind
so endowed will be long diverted by any studies that
do not either strengthen its powers by exercise, or have
a direct bearing on some particular need.
If the student be a painter, or a sculptor, he will not
need to be told that a knowledge of the human being, in
all his complicated springs of action, is not more essential to the poet than to himn. Nor will a true Artist
require to be reminded, that, though himself must be
his ultimate dictator and judge, the allegiance of the
world is not to be commanded either by a dreamer
or a dogmatist. And nothing, perhaps, would be more
likely to secure him from either character, than the habit
of keeping his eyes open, -nay, his very heart; nor
need he fear to open it to the whole world, since nothing not kindred will enter there to abide; for
"Evil into the mind.......
May come and go, so unapproved, and leave
No spot or blame behind."
136 
FORM.
And he may also be sure that a pure heart will shed a
refining light on his intellect, which it may not receive
from any other source.
It cannot be supposed that an Artist, so disciplined, will overlook the works of his predecessors,especially those exquisite remains of Antiquity which
time has spared to us.  But to his own  discretion
must be left the separating of the factitious from the
true, -a task of some moment; for it cannot be denied that a mere antiquarian respect for whatever is
ancient has preserved, with the good, much that is
worthless. Indeed, it is to little purpose that the finest
forms are set before us, if we feel not their truth. And
here it may be well to remark, that an injudicious word
has often given a wrong direction to the student, from
which he has found it difficult to recover when his
maturer mind has perceived the error.  It is a common
thing to hear such and such statues, or pictures, recommended as models. If the advice is followed, - as it
too often is literally, - the consequence must be an offensive mannerism; for, if repeating himself makes an
artist a mannerist, he is still more likely to become one
if he repeat another. There is but one model that
will not lead him astray, - which is Nature: we do not
mean what is merely obvious to the senses, but whatever is so acknowledged by the mind. So far, then, as
the ancient statues are found to represent her,- and the
student's own feeling must be the judge of that,- they
are undoubtedly both true and important objects of
study, as presenting not only a wider, but a higher
view of Nature, than might else be commanded, were
they buried with their authors; since, with the finest
forms of the fairest portion of the earth, we have also in
them the realized Ideas of some of the greatest minds.
1.2 -
137 
LECTURES ON ART.
In like manner  may we extend our sphere of knowledge by the study of all those productions of later ages
which have stood this test.  There is no school from
which something may not be learned.  But chiefly to
the Italian should the student be directed, who would
enlarge his views on the present subject, and especially to the works of Raffaelle and Michael Angelo; in
whose highest efforts we have, so to speak, certain revelations of Nature which could only have been made
by her privileged seers. And we refer to them more
particularly, as to the two great sovereigns of the two
distinct empires of Truth, -the Actual and the Imaginative; in which their claims are acknowledged by
that within us, of which we know nothing but that it
must respond to all things true.  We refer to them, also,
as important examples in their mode of study; in
which it is evident that, whatever the source of instruction, it was never considered as a law of servitude, but
rather as the means of giving visible shape to their
own conceptions.
From the celebrated antique fragment, called the
Torso, Michael Angelo is said to have constructed his
forms. If this be true,- and we have no reason to
doubt it,- it could nevertheless have been to him little
more than a hint. But that is enough to a man of
genius, who stands in need, no less than others, of a
point to start from. There was something in this fragment which he seems to have felt, as if of a kindred nature to the unembodied creatures in his own mind; and
he pondered over it until he mastered the spell of its
author.  He then turned to his own, to the germs of life
that still awaited birth, to knit their joints, to attach the
tendons, to mould the muscles,- finally, to sway the
limbs by a mighty will. Then emerged into being that
138 
FORIM.
gigantic race of the Sistina, -giants in mind no less
than in body, that appear to have descended as from
another planet. His Prophets and Sibyls seem to carry in their persons the commanding evidence of their
mission.  They neither look nor move like beings to be
affected by the ordinary concerns of life; but as if they
could only be moved by the vast of human events, the
fall of empires, the extinction of nations; as if the
awful secrets of the future had overwhelmed in them
all present sympathies. As we have stood before these
lofty apparitions of the painter's mind, it has seemed to
us impossible that the most vulgar spectator could have
remained there irreverent.
With many critics it seems to have been doubted
whether much that we now admire in Raffaelle would
ever have been but for his great contemporary. Be this
as it may, it is a fact of history, that, after seeing the
works of Michael Angelo, both his form and his style
assumed a breadth and grandeur which they possessed
not before. And yet these great artists had little, if any
thing, in common; a sufficient proof that an original
mind may owe, and even freely acknowledge, its irnmpetus to another without any self-sacrifice.
As Michael Angelo adopted from others only what
accorded with his own peculiar genius, so did Raffaelle; and, wherever collected, the materials of both
could not but enter their respective minds as their natural aliment.
The genius of Michael Angelo was essentially Imaginative. It seems rarely to have been excited by the objects with which we are daily familiar; and when he did
treat them, it was rather as things past, as they appear
to us through the atmosphere of the hallowing mnemory. We have a striking instance of this in his statue
139 
LEC'I TURES ON ART.
of Lorenzo de' Medici; where, retaining of the original
only enough to mark the individual, and investing the
rest with an air of grandeur that should accord with
his actions, he has left to his country, not a mere effigy of the person, but an embodiment of the mind;
a portrait for posterity, in which the unborn might recognize Lorenzo the Magnificent.
But the mind of Raffaelle was an ever-flowing fountain of human sympathies; and in all that concerns
man, in his vast varieties and complicated relations,
from the highest forms of majesty to the humblest condition of humanity, even to the maimed and misshapen, he may well be called a master.  His Apostles,
his philosophers, and most ordinary subordinates, are all
to us as living beings; nor do we feel any doubt that
they all had mothers, and brothers, and kindred.  In the
assemblage of the Apostles (already referred to) at the
Death of Ananias, we look upon men whom the effusioni of the Spirit has equally sublimated above every
unholy thought; a common power seems to have invested them all with a preternatural majesty. Yet not
an iota of the individual is lost in any one; the gentle
bearing and amenity of John still follow him in his office
of almoner; nor in Peter does the deep repose of the erect
attitude of the Apostle, as he deals the death-stroke to
the offender by a simple bend of his finger, subdue the
energetic, sanguine temperament of the Disciple.
If any man may be said to have reigned over the
hearts of his fellows, it was Raffaelle Sanzio. Not
that he knew better what was in the hearts and minds
of men than many others, but that he better understood their relations to the external. In this the greatest names in Art fall before him; in this he has no10 rival;
and, however derived, or in whatever degree improved by
140 
FORM..
study, in him it seems to have risen to intuition. We
know not how he touches and enthralls us; as if he
had wrought with the simplicity of Nature, we see no
effort; and we yield as to a living influence, sure, yet
inscrutable.
It is not to be supposed that these two celebrated Artists were at all times successful.   Like other
men, they had their moments of weakness, when they
fell into manner, and gave us diagrams, instead of
life. Perhaps no one, however, had fewer lapses of this
nature than Raffaelle; and yet they are to be found in
some of his best works. We shall notice now only
one instance, - the figure of St. Catherine in the admirable picture of the Madonna di Sisto; in which we
see an evidenit rescript from the Antique, with all the
received lines of beauty, as laid down by the analyst,
- apparently faultless, yet without a single inflection
which the mind can recognize as allied to our sympathies; and we turn from it coldly, as from the work of
an artificer, not of an Artist. But not so can we turn
from the intense life, that seems almost to breathe upon
us from the celestial group of the Virgin and her Child,
and from the Angels below: in these we have the evidence of the divine afflatus,- of inspired Art.
In the works  of Michael Angelo it were easy to
point out numerous examples of a similar failure,
though from a different cause; not fromn mechanically
following the Antique, but rather from erecting into a
model the exaggerated shadow of his own practice; from
repeating lines and masses that might have impressed
us with grandeur but for the utter absence of the informing soul.  And that such is the character - or rather
want of character - of many of the figures in his
Last Judgment cannot be gainsaid by his warmest ad
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LECTURES ON ART.
mirers, - among whom there is no one more sincere
than the present writer. But the failures of great men
are our most profitable lessons, - provided only, that
we have hearts and heads to respond to their success.
In conclusion. We have now arrived at what appears to us the turning-point, that, by a natural reflux,
must carry us back to our original Position; in other
words, it seems to us clear, that the result of the argurnment is that which was anticipated in our main Proposition; namely, that no given number of Standard
Forms can with certainty apply to the Human Being;
that all Rules therefore, thence derived, can only be considered as Expedient Fictions, and consequently subject
to be overruled by the Artist,-  in whose mind alone
is the ultimate Rule; and, finally, that without an intimate acquaintance with Nature, in all its varieties of
the moral, intellectual, and physical, the highest powers are wanting in their necessary condition of action,
and are therefore incapable of supplying the Rule.
142 
COMPOSITION.
THE term Composition, in its general sense, signifies
the union of things thab were originally separate: in
the art of Painting it implies, in addition to this, such
an arrangement and reciprocal relation of these materials, as shall constitute them so many essential parts of
a whole.
In a true Composition of Art will be found the following characteristics: - First, Unity of Purpose, as
expressing the general sentiment or intention of the
Artist. Secondly, Variety of Parts, as expressed in the
diversity of shape, quantity, and line. Thirdly, Continuity, as expressed by the connection of parts with
each other, and their relation to the whole. Fourthly,
Harmony of Parts.
As these characteristics, like every thing which the
mind can recognize as true, all have their origin in its
natural desires, they may also be termed Principles;
and as such we shall consider them. In order, however,
to satisfy ourselves that they are truly such, and not
arbitrary assumptions, or the traditional dogmas of Practice, it may be well to inquire whence is their authority; for, though the ultimate cause of pleasure and pain
may ever remain to us a mystery, yet it is not so 
LECTURES ON ART.
with their intermediate causes, or the steps that lead
to them.
With respect to Unity of Purpose, it is sufficient to
observe, that, where the attention is at the same time
claimed by two objects, having each a different end,
they must of necessity break in upon that free state required of the mind in order to receive a full impression
from either. It is needless to add, that such conflicting claims cannot, under any circumstances, be rendered agreeable. And yet this most obvious requirement of the mind has sometimes been violated by great
Artists, - though not of authority ill this particular, as
we shall endeavour to show in another place.
We proceed, meanwhile, to the second principle,
namely, Variety; by which is to be understood difference, yet with relation to a common end.
Of a ruling Principle, or Law, we can only get a notion by observing the effects of certain things in relation to the mind; the uniformity of which leads us to
infer something which is unchangeable and permanent.
It is in this way that, either directly or indirectly, we
learn the existence of certain laws that invariably control us. Thus, indirectly, from our disgust at monotony, we infer the necessity of variety.  But variety, when
carried to excess, results in weariness. Some limitation,
therefore, seems no less needed.  It is, however, obvious, that all attempts to fix the limit to Variety, that
shall apply as a universal rule, must be nugatory, inasmuch as the degree must depend on the kind, and the
kind on the subject treated. For instance, if the subject
be of a gay and light character, and the emotions intended to be excited of a similar nature, the variety
may be carried to a far greater extent than in one of a
graver character. In the celebrated Marriage at Cana,
144 
COMPOSITION.
by Paul Veronese, we see it carried, perhaps, to its
utmost limits; and to such an extent, that an hour's
travel will hardly conduct us through all its parts; yet
we feel no weariness throughout this journey, nay, we
are quite unconscious of the time it has taken. It is
no disparagement of this remarkable picture, if we consider the subject, not according to the title it bears, but
as what the Artist has actually made it,- that is, as a
Venetian entertainment; and also the effect intended,
which was to delight by the exhibition of a gorgeous
pag,eant. And in this he has succeeded to a degree
unexampled; for literally the eye may be said to dance
through the picture, scarcely lighting on one part before
it is drawn to another, and another, and another, as by
a kind of witchery; while the subtile interlocking of
each successive novelty leaves it no choice, but, seducing it onward, still keeps it in motion, till the giddy
sense seems to call on the Imagination to join in the
revel; and every poetic temperament answers to the
call, bringing visions of its own, that mingle with the
painted crowd, exchanging forms, and  giving them
voice, like the creatures of a dream.
To those who have never seen this picture, our account of its effect may perhaps appear incredible when
they are told, that it not only has no story, but not a
single expression to which you can attach a sentiment.
It is nevertheless for this very reason that we here
cite it, as a triumphant verification of those immutable
laws of the mind  to which  the principles of  Composition are supposed to appeal; where the simple
technic exhibition, or illustration of Principles, without
story, or thought, or a single definite expression, has still
the power to possess and to fill us with a thousand delightful emotions.
145
13 
LECTURES ON' ART.
And here we cannot refrain from a passing remark
on certain criticisms, which have obtained, as we think,
an undeserved currency.  To assert that such a work is
solely addressed to the senses (meaning thereby that its
only end is in mere pleasurable sensation) is to give the
lie to our con,victions; ia-ic1smLtch as we find it appealing tco one of the mightiest ministers of the Imagination,
-thle great Law  OIL Hairmo y, —wvhich cannot  be
toz.chiec, without a-wakening by iOs vibrations, so to
speak, the untold myriads of sleeping forms that lie
within its circle, that start up in tribes, and each in accordance with the congenial instrument that summons
them to action.  bie who can thus, as it were, embody
an abstraction is no mere pander to the senses.  And
who that has a modicum of the imaginative would assert of one of Haydn's Sonatas, that its effect on him
was no other thanl sensuous?  Or who would ask for
the story in one of our gorgeous autumnal sunsets?
In subjects of a grave or elevated kind, the Variety
trill be found to diminish in the same degree in which
they approach the Sublime.  In the raising of Lazarus,
by Lievens, we have an example of the smallest possible number of parts which the nature of such a subject would admit. And, though a different conception
might authorize a much greater number, yet we do not
feel in this any deficiency; indeed, it may be doubted
if the addition of even one more part would not be fclt
as obtrusive.
By the term p)arts we are not to be understood as including the minutia of dress or ornament, or even the
several members of a group, which come more properly
under the head of detail; we apply the term only to
those prominent divisions which constitute the esselitial features of a composition.  Of these the Subliine
146 
COMPOSITION.
admits the fewest.  Nor is the limitation arbitrary. By
whatever causes the stronger passions or higher faculties of the mind become pleasurably excited, if they be
pushed as it were beyond their supposed limits, till a
sense of the indefinite seems almost to partake of the
infinite, to these causes we  affix the epithet Stbl&iime.
It is needless to inquire if such an effect can be produced by any thing short of the vast and overpowering,
much less by the gradual approach or successive accumulation of any number of separate forces. Every
one can answer from his own experience. We may
also add, that the pleasure which belongs to the deeper
emotions always trenches on pain; and the sense of pain
leads to reaction; so that, singly roused, they will rise
but to fall, like men at a breach, - leaving a conquest,
not over the lving, but the dead.  The effect of the
Sublime must therefore be sudden, and to be sudden,
simple, scarce seen till felt; coming like a blast, bending and levelling every thing before it, till it passes into
space.  So comes this marvellous emotion; and so vanishes, - to where no straining of our mortal faculties
will ever carry them.
To prevent misapprehension, we may here observe,
that, though the parts be few, it does not necessarily
follow that they should avlways consist of simple
or single objects.   This narrow inference has often
led to the error of mistaking mere space for grandeur, especially with those who  have wrought rather
from theory than from the true possession of their subjects. Hence, by the mechanical arrangement of certain large and sweeping masses of light and shadow,
we are sometimes surprised into a momentary expectation of a sublime impression, when  a nearer approach
gives us only the notion of a vast blank. And the
1.47 
LECTURES ON ART.
error lies in the misconception of a mass.  For a mass
is not a thing, but the condition of thin(,s; into which,
should the subject require it, a legioni, a host, may be
compressed, an army with banners, - yet so that they
break not the unity of their Part, that technic form to
which they are subordinate.
The difference between a Part and a Mass is., that a
Mass may include, per se, many Parts, yet, in relation
to a Whole, is no more than a single component. Perhaps the same distinction may be more simply expressed, if we define it as only a larger division, including
several parts, which may be said to be analogous to
what is termed the detail of a Part.   Look  at the
ocean in a storm,- at that single wave.  How  it
grows before us, building up its waters as with conscious life, till its huge head overlooks the mast! A
million of lines intersect its surface, a myriad of bubbles fleck it with light; yet its terrible unity remains
unbroken.  Not a bubble or a line gives a thought of
minuteness; they flash and flit, ere the eye can count
them, leaving only their aggregate, in the indefinite
sense of multitudinous motion: take them away, and
you take from the mass the very sign of its power, that
fearful impetus which makes it what it is,- a moving
mountain of water.
We have thus endeavoured, in the opposite characters
of the Sublime and the Gay or Magnificent, to exhibit
the two extremes of Variety; of the intermediate degrees it is unnecessary to speak, since in these two is
included all that is applicable to the rest.
Though it is of vital importance to every comnposition that there be variety of Lines, little can be said on
the subject in addition to what has been advanced in
relation to parts, that is, to shape and quantity; both
148 
COMPOSITION.
having a common origin. By a line in Composition is
meant something very different from the geometrical
definition. Originally, it was no doubt used as a metaphor; but the needs of Art have long since converted
this, and many other words of like application, (as tone,
&c.,) into technical terms.   Line thus  signifies the
course or medium through which the eye is led from
one part of the picture to another. The indication of
this course is various and multiform, appertaining equally to shape, to color, and to light and dark; in a word,
to whatever attracts and keeps the eye in motion. For
the regulation of these lines there is no rule absolute,
except that they vary and unite; nor is the last strictly
necessary, it being sufficient if they so terminate that
the transition from one to another is made naturally,
and without effort, by the imagination. Nor can any
laws be laid down as to their peculiar character: this
must depend on the nature of the subject.
In the wild and stormy scenes of Salvator Rosa,
they break upon us as with the angular flash of lightning; the eye is dashed up one precipice only to be
dashed down another; then, suddenly hurried to the
sky, it shoots up, almost in a direct line, to some sharpedged rock; whence pitched, as it were, into a sea of
clouds, bellying with circles, it partakes their motion,
and seems to reel, to roll, and to plunge with them into
the depths of air.
If we pass from Salvator to Claude, we shall find a
system of lines totally different. Our first impression
from Claude is that of perfect unity, and this we have
even before we are conscious of a single image; as if,
circumscribing his scenes by a magic circle, he had im posed his own mood on all who entered it. The spell
then opens ere it seems to have begun, acting upon us
13 *
149 
oIICT UI.iS ON ART.
with a vague sense of limitless expanse, yet so continnous, so gentle, so imperceptible in its remotest gradations, as scarcely to be felt, till, combining with unity,
we find the feeling embodied in the complete image of
intellectual repose, - fulness and rest.  The mind thus
disposed, the charmed eye glides into the scene: a soft,
undulating light leads it on, from bank to bank, from
shrub to shrub; now leaping and sparkling over pebbly
brooks and sunny sands; now fainter and fainter, dying
away down shady slopes, then seemingly quenched in
some secluded dell; yet only for a moment,- for a
dimmer ray again carries it onward, gently winding
among the boles of trees and rambling vines, that,
skirting the ascent, seem to hem in the twilight; then
emerging into day, it flashes in sheets over towers and
towns, and woods and streams, when it finally dips into
an ocean, so far off; so twin-like with the sky, that the
doubtful horizon, unmarliked by a line, leaves no point
of rest: and now, as in a flickering arch, the fascinated
eye seems to sail upward like a bird, wheeling its flight
through a mottled labyrinth of clouds, on to the zenith;
whence, gently inflected by some shadowy mass, it
slants again downward to a mass still deeper, and still
to another, and another, until it falls into the darkness
of some massive tree,- focused like midnight in the
brightest noon: there stops the eye, instinctively closing, and giving place to the Soul, there to repose and
to dream her dreams of romance and love.
From these two examples of their general effect,
some notion may be gathered of the different systems
of the two Artists; and though no mention has been
made of the particular lines employed, their distinctive
character may readily be inferred from the kind of motion given to the eye in the descriptions we have at
15 O0 
COMPOSITION.
tempted.   In the rapid, abrupt, contrasted, whirling
movement in the one, we have an exposition of an
irregular combination of curves and angles; while the
simple combination of the parabola and the serpentine
will account for all the imperceptible transitions in the
other.
It would be easy to accumulate examples from other
Artists who differ in the economy of line not only from
these but from each other; as Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Titian, Poussin, - in a word, every painter deserving the name of master: for lines here may be
called the tracks of thought, in which we follow the
author's mind through his imaginary creations.  They
hold, indeed, the same relation to Painting that versification does to Poetry, an elemnent of style; for what is
meant by a line in Painting is analogous to that which
in the sister art distinguishes the abrupt gait of Crabbe
from the sauntering walk of Cowley, and the " long,
majestic march" of Dryden fromn the surging sweep of
Milton.
Of Continuity little needs be said, since its uses are
implied in the explanation of Line; indeed, all that can
be added will be expressed in its essential relation to a
whiole, in which alone it differs from a mere line.  For,
though a line (as just explained) supposes a continuous course, yet a line, per se, does not necessarily imply
any relation to other lines.  It will still be a line, though
standing alone; but the principle of continuity may be
called the unifying spirit of every line. It is therefore
that we have distinguished it as a separate principle.
In fact, if we judge from feeling, the only true test,
it is no paradox to say that the excess of variety must
inevitably end in monotony; for, as soon as the sense
of fatigue begins, every new variety but adds to the
151 
LECTURES ON ART.
pain, till the succeeding impressions are at last resolved
into continuous pain. But, supposing a limit to vari ety, where the mind may be pleasurably excited, the
very sense of pleasure, when it reaches the extreme
point, will create the desire of renewing it, and natural ly carry it back to the point of starting; thus superin ducing, with the renewed enjoyment, the fulness of
pleasure, in the sense of a whole.
It is by this summing up, as it were, of the memory,
through recurrence, not that we perceive, - which is instantaneous, - but that we enjoy any thing as a whole.
If we have not observed it in others, some of us, perhaps, may remember it in ourselves, when we have stood
before some fine picture, though with a sense of pleasure, yet for many minutes in a manner abstracted,
silently passing through all its harmonious transitions
without the movement of a muscle, and hardly conscious of action, till we have suddenly found ourselves
returning on our steps.  Then it was,- as if we had no
eyes till then, - that the magic Whole poured in upon
us, and vouched for its truth in an outbreak of rapture.
The fourth and last division of our subject is the Hlarmony of Parts; or the essential agreement of one part
with another, and of each with the whole. In addition
to our first general definition, we may further observe,
that by a Whole in Painting is signified the complete
expression, by means of form, color, light, and shadow,
of one thought, or series of thoughts, having for their
end some particular truth, or sentiment, or action, or
mood of mind.  We  say thlought, because no images,
however put together, can ever be separated by the
minid from other and extraneous images, so as to comprise a positive whole, unless they be limited by some
intellectual boundary. A picture wanting this may
152 
COMPOSITION.
have fine parts, but is not a Composition, which implies
parts united to each other, and also suited to some
specific purpose, otherwise they cannot be known as
united. Since Harmony, therefore, cannot be conceived
of without reference to a whole, so neither can a whole
be imagined without fitness of parts. To give this fitness, then, is the ultimate task and test of genius: it is, ill
fact, calling form and life out of what before was but
a chaos of materials, and making themn the subject and
exponents of the will. As the master-principle, also, it
is the disposer, regulator, and modifier of shape, line,
and quantity, adding, diminishing, changing, shaping,
till it becomes clear and intelligible, and it finally manifests itself in pleasurable identity with the harmony
within us.
To reduce the operation of this principle to precise
rules is, perhaps, without the province of human power:
we might else expect to see poets and painters made
by recipe. As in many other operations of the mind,'
we must here be content to note a few of the more
tangible facts, if we may be allowed the phrase, which
have occasionally been gathered by observation during
the process. The first fact presented is, that equal
quantities, when coming together, produce monotony,
and, if at all admissible, are only so when absolutely
needed, at a proper distance, to echo back or recall the
theme, which would otherwise be lost in the excess of
variety. We speak of quantity here as of a mass, not
of the minutia; for the essential components of a part
may often be equal quantities, (as in a piece of architecture, of armour, &c.,) which are analogous to poetic
feet, for instance, a spondee. The same effect we find
from parallel lines and repetition of shapes. Hence we
obtain the law of a limited variety. The next is, that
153 
LECTURES ON ART.
the quantities must be so disposed as to balance each
other; otherwise, if all or too many of the larger be on
one side, they will endanger the imaginary circle, or other
figure, by which every composition is supposed to be
bounded, making it appear "lop-sided," or to be falling
either in upon the smaller quantities, or out of the pieture: from which we infer the necessity of balance. If,
without others to counteract and restrain them, the parts
converge, the eye, being forced to the centre, becomes
stationary; in like manner, if all diverge, it is forced
to fly off in tangents: as if the great laws of Attraction and Repulsion were here also essential, and illustrated in miniature. If we add to these Breadth, I believe we shall have enumerated all the leading phenomena of Harmony, which experience has enabled us to
establish as rules. By breadth is meant such a massing of the quantities, whether by color, light, or shadow,
as shall enable the eye to pass without obstruction, and
by easy transitions, from one to another, so that it shall
appear to take in the whole at a glance. This may be
likened to both the exordium and peroration of a discourse, including as well the last as the first general
idea. It is, in other words, a simple, connected, and
concise exposition and summary of what the artist
intends.
We have thus endeavoured to arrange and to give a
logical permanency to the several principles of Composition. It is not to be supposed, however, that in these
we have every principle that might be named; but they
are all, as we conceive, that are of universal application.
Of other minor, or rather personal ones, since they
pertain to the individual, the number can only be limited by the variety of the human intellect, to which
these may be considered as so many simple elementary
164 
COMPOSITION.
guides; not to create genius, but to enable it to understand itself, and by a distinct knowledge of its own
operations to correct its mistakes,- in a word, to establish the landmarks between the flats of commonplace
and the barrens of extravagance. And, though the personal or individual principles referred to may not with
propriety be cited as examples in a general treatise like
the present, they are not only not to be overlooked, but
are to be regarded by the student as legitimate objects of study. To the truism, that we can only judge
of other minds by a knowledge of our own, we may
add its converse as especially true. In that mysterious
tract of the intellect, which we call the Imagination,
there would seem to lie hid thousands of unknown
forms, of which we are often for years unconscious, until they start up awakened by the footsteps of a stranger. Hence it is that the greatest geniuses, as presenting a wider field for excitement, are generally found
to be the widest likers; not so much from affinity, or
because they possess the precise kinds of excellence
which they admire, but often from the differences which
these very excellences in others, as the exciting cause,
awaken in themselves. Such men may be said to be
endowed with a double vision, an inward and an outward; the inward seeing not unfrequently the reverse
of what is seen by the outward. It was this which
caused Annibal Caracci to remark, on seeing for the
first time a picture by Caravaggio, that he thought a
style totally opposite might be made very captivating;
and the hint, it is said, sunk deep into and was not lost
on Guido, who soon after realized what his master had
thus imagined. Perhaps no one ever caught more from
others than Raffaelle.  I do not allude to his "borrowilg," so ingeniously, not soundly, defended by  Sir
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LECTURES ON ART.
Joshua, but rather to his excitability, (if I may here apply a modern term,)   that inflammable temperament,
which took fire, as it were, from the very friction of the
atmosphere.   For there was searce an excellence, within his knowledge, of his predecessors or contemporaries,
which did not ie a greater or less degree contribute to
the developement of his powers; not as presenting
models of imitation but as shedding new light on his
own mind, and opening to view its hidden treasures.
Such to him were the forms of the Antique, of Leonardo da Vinci, and of Michael Angelo, and the breadth
and color of Fr:a Bartolomeo,- lights that first made
him acquainted with himself, not lights that he followed; for he was a follower of none. To how many
others he was indebted for his impulses cannot no-w
be knovwn; but the new impetus he was known to
have received from every new excellence has led many
to believe, that, had he lived to see the works of Titian,
he would have added to his grace, character, and form,
and with equal originality, the splendor of color.  "The
design of Michael Angelo and the color of Titian," was
the inscription of Tintoretto over the door of his paintingroom. Whether he intended to designate these two artists as his future models matters not; but that he did not
follow them is evidenced in his works. Nor, indeed,
could he: the temptation to follow, which his youthful
admiration had excited, was met by an interdiction not
easily withstood, - the decree of his own genius. And
yet the decree had probably never been heard but for
these very masters.  Their presence stirred him; and,
when he thought of serving, his teeming mind poured
out its abundance, making him a master to future generations. To the forms of Michael Angelo he was cer-'
tainly indebted for the elevation of his own; there,
156 
COMPOSITION.
however, the inspiration ended. With Titian he was
nearly allied in genius;  yet he thought rather with
than after him,- at times even beyond him. Titian,
indeed, may be said to have first opened his eyes to the
mysteries of nature; but they were no sooner opened,
than he rushed into them with a rapidity and daring
unwont to the more cautious spirit of his master; and,
though irregular, eccentric, and often inferior, yet sometimes he made his way to poetical regions, of whose
celestial hues even Titian himself had never dreamt.
We might go on thus with every great name in Art.
But these examples are enough to show how much
even the most original minds, not only may, but must,
owe to others; for the social law of our nature applies
no less to the intellect than to the afiections. When applied to genius, it may be called the social inspiration,
the simple statement of which seems to us of itself a
solution of the oft-repeated question, "Why is it that
genius always appears in clusters?"   To Nature, indeed, we must  all at last recur, as to the only true
and permanent foundation of real excellence. But Nature is open to all men alike, in her beauty, her majesty,
her grandeur, and her sublimity. Yet who will assert
that all men see, or, if they see, are impressed by these
her attributes alike? Nay, so great is the difference,
that one might almost suppose them inhabitants of
different worlds. Of Claude, for instance, it is hardly
a metaphor to say that he lived in two worlds during
his natural life; for Claude the pastry-cook could never
have seen the same world that was made visible to
Claude the painter.  It was human sympathy, acting
through human works, that gave birth to his intellect at
the age of forty. There is something, perhaps, ludi crous in the thought of an infant of forty. Yet the
14
157 
LECTURES ON ART.
fact is a solemn one, that thousands die whose minds
have never been born.
We could not, perhaps, instance a stronger confutation of the vulgar error which opposes learning to
genius, than the simple history of this remarkable
man. In all that respects the mind, he was literally a
child, till accident or necessity carried him to Rome;
for, when the office of color-grinder, added to that of
cook, by awakening his curiosity, first excited a love for
the Art, his progress through its rudiments seems to
have been scarcely less slow and painful than that of a
child through the horrors of the alphabet. It was the
struggle of one who was learning to think; but, the
rudiments being mastered, he found himself suddenly
possessed, not as yet of thought, but of new forms of
language; then came thoughts, pouring from his mind,
and filling them as moulds, without which they had
never, perhaps, had either shape or consciousness.
Now what was this new language but the product of
other minds, - of successive minds, amending, entlarging, elaborating, through successive ages, till, fitted to all
its wants, it became true to the Ideal, and the vernacular tongue of genius through all time? The first inventor of verse was but the prophetic herald of Homer,
Shakspeare, and Milton. And what was Rome then
but the great University of Art, where all this accumulated learning was treasured?
Much has been said of self-taught geniuses, as opposed to those who have been instructed by others: but
the distinction, it appears to us, is without a difference;
for it matters not whether we learn in a school or by
ourselves, - we cannot learn any thing without in some
way recurring to other minds. Let us imagine a poet
who had never read, never heard, never conversed with
168 
COMPOSITION.
another. Now if he will not be taught in any thing by
another, he must strictly preserve this independent negation. Truly the verses of such a poet would be a
miracle. Of similar self-taught painters we have abundant examples in our aborigines,- but nowhere else.
But, while we maintain, as a positive law of our nature, the necessity of mental intercourse with our fellow-creatures, in order to the full developement of the
indivi&htal, we are far from implying that any thing
which is actually taken from others can by any process
become our own, that is, original. We may reverse,
transpose, diminish, or add to it, and so skilfully that
no seam or mutilation shall be detected; and yet we
shall not make it appear original,- in other words, true,
the offspring of one mind. A borrowed thought will always be borrowed; as it will be felt as such in its effect,
even while we are ourselves unconscious of the fact:
for it will want that effect of life, which only the first
mind can give it.*
* There is one species of imitation, however, which, as having been
practised by some of the most original minds, and also sanctioned by the
ablest writers, demands at least a little consideration; namely, the adoption
of an attitude, provided it be employed to convey a different thought. So
far, indeed, as the imitation has been confined to a suggestion, and the attitude adopted has been modified by the new subject, to which it was transferred, by a distinct change of character and expression, though with but little variation in the disposition of limbs, we may not dissent; such imitations being virtually little more than hints, since they end in thoughts either
totally different from, or more complete than, the first. This we do not condemn, for every Poet, as well as Artist, knows that a thought so modified is
of right his own. It is the transplanting of a tree, not the borrowing of a
seed, against which we contend. But when writers justify the appropriation
of entire figures, without any such change, we do not agree with them; and
cannot but think that the examples they have quoted, as in the Sacrifice at
Lystra, by Raffaelle, and the Baptism, by Poussin, will fully support our
position. The antique basso rilievo which Raffaelle has introduced in the
former, being certainly imitated both as to lines and grouping, is so distinct, both in character and form,from the surrounding figures, as to ren
159 
LECTURES ON ART.
Of the multifarious retailers of the second-hand in
style, the class is so numerous as to make a selection
difficult: they meet us at every step in the history of
the Art. One instance, however, may suffice, and we
select Vernet, as uniting in himself a singular and striking example of thefalse and the true; and also as the
least invidious instance, inasmuch as we may prove our
position by opposing him to himself.
der them a distinct people, and their very air reminds us of another age.
We cannot but believe we should have had a very different group, and far
superior in expression, had he given us a conception of his own. It would
at least have been in accordance with the rest, animated with the superstitious enthusiasm of the surrounding crowd; and especially as sacrificing
Priests would they have been amazed and awe-stricken in the living presence of a god, instead of personating, as in the present group, the cold
officials of the Temple, going through a stated task at the shrine of their
idol. In the figure by Poussin, which he borrowed from Michael Angelo,
the discrepancy is still greater.  The original figure, which was in the Cartoon at Pisa, (now known only by a print,) is that of a warrior who has been
suddenly roused from the act of bathing by the sound of a trumpet; he has
just leaped upon the bank, and, in his haste to obey its summnons, thrusts
his foot through his garment. Nothing could be more appropriate than the
violence of this action; it is in unison with the hurry and bustle of the
occasion. And this is the figure which Poussin (without the slightest
change, if we recollect aright) has transferred to the still and solemn
scene in which John baptizes the Saviour.  No one can look at this figure
without suspecting the plagiarism. Similar instances may be found in his
other works; as in the Plague of the Philistines, where the Alcibiades of
Raffaelle is coolly sauntering among the dead and dying, and with as little
relation to the infected multitude as if he were still with Socrates in the
School of Athens. In the same picture may be found also one of the
Apostles from the Cartoon of the Draught of Fishes: and we may naturally ask what business he has there. And yet such appropriations have been
made to appear no thefts, simply because no attempt seems to have been
made at concealment!  But theft, we must be allowed to think, is still
theft, whether committed in the dark, or in the face of day.  And the example is a dangerous one, inasmuch as it comes from men who were not
constrained to resort to such shifts by any poverty of invention.
Akin to this is another and larger kind of borrowing, which, though it
cannot strictly be called copying,-yet so evidently betrays a foreign origin,
as to produce the same effect. We allude to the adoption of the peculiar
lines, handling, and disposition of mares, &c., of any particular master.
160 
COMPOSITION.
In the landscapes of Vernet, (when not mere views,)
we see the imitator of Salvator, or rather copyist of his
lines; and these we have in all their angular nakedness, where rocks, trees, and mountains are so jagged,
contorted, and tumbled about, that nothing but an
explosion could account for their assemblage. They
have not the relation which we sometimes find even in
a random collocation, as in the accidental pictures of a
discolored wall; for the careful hand of the contriver
is traced through all this disorder; nay, the very execution, the conventional dash of pencil, betrays what a
lawyer would call the malice prepense of the Artist in
their strange disfigurement. To many this may appear
like hypercriticism; but we sincerely believe that no
one, even among his admirers, has ever been deceived
into a real sympathy with such technical flourishes:
they are felt as factitious; as mere diagrams of composition deduced from pictures.
Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when
he wrought from his own mind. A dark leaden atmosphere prepares us for something fearful: suddenly a
scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous, bursts upon us;
and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other
thought from the mind: the terrible vision now seizes
the imagination, filling it with sound and motion: we
see the clouds fly, the furious waves one upon another
dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath, towards the devoted ship: the wind blows from the can vas; we hear it roar through her shrouds; her masts
bend like twigs, and her last forlorn hope, the close reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag: a terrible
fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky
shore looms on her lee: then comes the dreadful cry of
"Breakers ahead!" the crew stand appalled, and  the
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161 
LECTURES ON ART.
master's trumpet is soundless at his lips. This is the
uproar of nature, and we feel it to be true; for here every
line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds,
the huddled waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by
contrast into the sharpest angles, all agree, opposed as
they seem, - evolving harmony out of apparent discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever
disprove.
But all great names, it is said, must have their shadows.  In our Art they have many shadows, or rather I
should say, reflections; which are more or less distinct
according to their proximity to the living originals, and,
like the images in opposite mirrors, becoming themselves reflected and re-reflected with a kind of battledoor alternation, grow dimmer and dimmer till they
vanish from mere distance.
Thus have the great schools of Italy, Flanders, and
Holland lived and walked after death, till even their
ghosts have become familiar to us.
We would not, however, be understood as asserting
that we receive pleasure only from original works: this
would be contradicting the general experience. We
admit, on the contrary, that there are hundreds, nay,
thousands, of pictures having no pretensions to originality of any kind, which still afford pleasure; as, indeed,
do many thiings out of the Art, which we know to be
second-hand, or imperfect, and even trifling. Thus grace
of manner, for instance, though wholly unaided by a
single definite quality, will often delight us, and a ready
elocution, with scarce a particle of sense, make commonplace agreeable; and it seems to be, that the pain
of mental inertness renders action so desirable, that the
mind instinctively surrounds itself with myriads of objects, having little to recommend them but the property
of keeping it from stagnating. And we are far from
162 
COMPOSITION.
denying a certain value to any of these, provided they
be innocent: there are times when even the wisest man
will find commonplace wholesome. All we have attempted to show is, that the effect of an original work,
as opposed to an imitation, is marked by a diflerence,
not of degree merely, but of kind; and that this differcnce cannot fail to be felt, not, indeed, by every one,
but by any competent judge, that is, any one in whom
is developed, by natural exercise, that internal sense by
which the spirit of life is discerned.
Every original work becomes such from the infusion, so to speak, of the mind of the Author; and of
this the freoh materials of nature alone seem susceptible. The imitated workls of man cannot be endued
with a second life, that is, with a second mind: they
are to the imitator as air already breathed.
MThat has been said in relation to Form  - that the
works of our predecessors, so far as they are recognized
as true, are to be considered as an extension of Nature,
and therefore proper objects of study-is equally applicable to Composition. But it is not to be understood
that this extended Nature (if we may so term it) is in
any instance to be imnitated as a whole, which would
be bringing our minds into bondage to another: since,
as already shown in the second Discourse, every original work is of necessity impressed with the mind of its
author. If it be asked, then, what is the advantage of
such study, we shall endeavour to show, that it is not
merely, as some have supposed, in enriching the mind
with materials, but rather in widening our view of excellence, and, by consequent excitement, expanding our
own powers of observation, reflection, and performance.   By increasing the power of performance, we
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LECTURES ON ART.
mean enlarging our knowledge of the technical proeess, or the medium through which thought is expressed; a most important species of knowledge, which,
if to be otherwise attained, is at least most readily
learned from those who have left us the result of
their experience.   This  technical process, which has
been well called the language of the Art, includes, of
course, all that pertains to Composition, which, as the
general medium, also contains most of the elements of
this peculiar tongue.
From the gradual progress of the various arts of civilization, it would seem that only under the action of
some great socical law can man arrive at the full developement of his powers. In our Art especially is this
true; for the experience of one man must necessarily
be limited, particularly if compared with the endless
varieties of form and effect which diversify the face of
Nature; and the finest of these, too, in their very nature
transient, or of rare occurrence, and only known to oecur to those who are prepared to seize them in their
rapid transit; so that in one short life, and with but
one set of senses, the greatest genius can learn but little. The Artist, therefore, must needs owe much to the
living, and more to the dead, who are virtually his companions, inasmuch as through their works they still live
to our sympathies. Besides, in our great predecessors
we may be said to possess a multiplied life, if life be
measured by the number of acts, - which, in this ease,
we may all appropriate to ourselves, as it were by  a
glance.  For the dead in Art may  well be likened to
the hardy pioneers of our own country, who have successively cleared before us the swamps and forests that
would have obstructed our progress, and opened to us
lands which the efforts of no individual, however persevering, would enable him to reach.
164 
APHORISMS.  
SENTENCES
WRITTEN BY MR. ALLSTON ON THE WALLS O' HIS STUDIO,
1. "No genuine work of Art ever was, or ever canr
be, produced but for its own sakle; if the painter does
not conceive to please himnself, he will not finish to
please the world."- FUSELI.
2. If an Artist love his Art for its own sake, he will
delight in excellence wherever he meets it, as well in the
work of another as in his own.  This is the test of a
true love.
3. Nor is this genuine love compatible with a craving
for distinction; where the latter predominates, it is sure
to betray itself before contemporary excellence, either
by silence, or (as a bribe to the conscience) by a modicum of praise.
The enthusiasm of a mind so influenced is confined
to itself.
4. Distinction is the consequence, never the object, of
a great mind. 
APHORISMS.
5. The love of gain never made a Painter; but it
has malrred many.
6. The most common disguise of Envy is in the
praise of what is subordinate.
7. Selfishness in Art, as in other things, is sensibility
kept at home.
8. The Devil's heartiest laugh is at a detracting witticism.  Hence the phrase "devilish good" has sometimes a literal meaning.
9. The most intangible, and therefore the worst, kind
of lie is a half truth. This is the peculiar device of a
conscientious detractor.
10. Reverence is an ennobling sentiment; it is felt
to be degrading only by the vulgar mind, which would
escape the sense of its own littleness by elevating itself
into an antagonist of what is above it.  He that has
no pleasure in looking up is not fit so much as to look
down. Of such minds are mnannerists in Art; in the
world, tyrants of all sorts.
11. No right judgment can ever be formed on any
subject having a moral or intellectual bearing without benevolence; for so strong is man's natural self-bias, that,
without this restraining principle, he insensibly becomes
a competitor in all such cases presented to his mind;
and, when the comparison is thus made personal, unless
the odds be immeasurably against him, his decision
wvill rarely be impartial. In other words, no one can
see any thing as it really is through the misty spectacles
168 
APHORISMS.
of self-love. We must wish well to another in order to
do him justice. Now the virtue in this good-will is not
to blind us to his faults, but to our own rival and interposing merits.
12. In the same degree that we overrate ourselves,
we shall underrate others; for injustice allowed at home
is not likely to be corrected abroad. Never, therefore,
expect justice from a vain man; if he has the negative magnanimity not to disparage you, it is the most
you can expect.
13. The Phrenologists are right in placing the organ of self-love in the back of the head, it being there
where a vain man carries his intellectual light; the consequence of which is, that every man he approaches is
obscured by his own shadow.
14. Nothing is rarer than a solitary lie; for lies breed
like Surinam toads; you cannot tell one but out it comes
with a hundred young ones on its back.
15. If the whole world should agree to speak nothing
but truth, what an abridgment it would make of speech!
And what an unravelling there would be of the invisible webs which men, like so many spiders, now weave
about each other! But the contest between Truth and
Falsehood is now pretty well balanced. Were it not so,
and had the latter the mastery, even language would
soon become extinct, from its very uselessness.  The
present superfluity of words is the result of the warfare.
16. A witch's skiff cannot more easily sail in the
teeth of the wind, than the human eye lie against fact;
16
169 
APIIORISMS.
but the truth will oftener quiver through lips with a lie
upon them.
17. An open brow with a clenched hand shows any
thing but an open purpose.
18. It is a hard matter for a man to lie all over, Nature having provided king's evidence in almost every
member. The hand will sometimes act as a vane to
show which way the wind blows, when every feature is
set the other way; the knees smite together, and sound
the alarm of fear, under a fierce countenance; and the
legs shake with anger, when all above is calm.
19. Nature observes a variety even in her correspondences; insomuch that in parts which seem but repetitions there will be found a difference. For instance, in
the human countenance, the two sides of which are
never identical. Whenever she deviates into monotony, the deviation is always marked as an exception by
some striking deficiency; as in idiots, who are the only
persons that laugh equally on both sides of the mouth.
The insipidity of many of the antique Statues may
be traced to the false assumption of identity in the corresponding parts. No work wrought by feeling (which,
after all, is the ultimate rule of Genius) was ever marked by this monotony.
20. He is but half an orator who turns his hearers
into spectators. The best gestures (quoad the speaker)
are those which he cannot help. An unconscious thump
of the fist or jerk of the elbow is more to the purpose,
(whatever that may be,) than the most graceful cutand-dried action.  It matters not whether the orator
170 
APHORISMS.
personates a trip-hammer or a wind-mill; if his mill
but move with the grist, or his hammer knead the iron
beneath it, he will not fail of his effect. An impertinent
gesture is more likely to knock down the orator than
his opponent.
21. The only true independence is in humility; for
the humble man exacts nothing, and cannot be mortified, - expects nothing, and cannot be disappointed.
Humility is also a healing virtue; it will cicatrize a
thousand wounds, which pride would keep for ever
open. But humility is not the virtue of a fool; since
it is not consequent upon any comparison between
ourselves and others, but between what we are and
what we ought to be,  which no man ever was.
22. The greatest of all fools is the proud fool,-wt;...
is at the mercy of every fool he meets.:
23. There is an essential meanness in the wish'.:
get the better of any one.  The only competition womty.
of a wise man is with himself.
24. He that argues for victory is but a gambler in
words, seeking to enrich himself by another's loss.
25. Some men make their ignorance the measure of
excellence; these are, of course, very fastidious critics;
for, knowing little, they can find but little to like.
26. The Painter who seeks popularity in Art closes
the door upon his own genius.
27. Popular excellence in one age is but the mechanism
of what was good in the preceding; in Art, the technic.
171 
APHORISMIS.
28. Make no man your idol, for the best man must
have faults; and his faults will insensibly become yours,
in addition to your own. This is as true in Art as in
morals.
29. A man of genius should not aim at praise, except
in the form of sympathy; this assures him of his success, since it meets the feeling which-possessed himself.
30. Originality in Art is the individualizing the Universal; in other words, the impregnating some general
truth with the individual mind.
31. The painter who is content with the praise of
the world in respect to what does not satisfy himself, is
not an artist, but an artisan; for though his reward be
thily praise, his pay is that of a mechanic, - for his
* time, and not for his art.
-. 32. Reputation is but a synonyme of popularity;
-e.'ndent on suffrage, to be increased or diminished at
the will of the voters. It is the creature, so to speak,
of its particular age, or rather of a particular state of
society; consequently, dying with that which sus tained it. Hence we can scarcely go over a page of
history, that we do not, as in a church-yard, tread upon
some buried reputation. But fame cannot be voted
down, having its immediate foundation in the essential.
It is the eternal shadow of excellence, from which it
can never be separated; nor is it ever made visible but
in the light of an intellect kindred with that of its au thor.' It is that light which projects the shadow which
is seen of the multitude, to be wondered at and rever enced, even while so little comprehended as to be often
confounded with the substance, -  the:lb-.tance being
172 
APHORISMS.
admitted from the shadow, as a matter of faith. It is
the economy of Providence to provide such lights: like
rising and setting stars, they follow each other through
successive ages: and thus the monumental form of Genius stands for ever relieved against its own imperishable
shadow.
33. All excellence of every kind is but variety of
truth. If we wish, then, for something beyond the
true, we wish for that which is false. According to
this test, how little truth is there in Art! Little indeed! but how much is that little to him who feels it!
34. Fame does not depend on the will of any man,
but Reputation may be given or taken away. Fame is
the sympathy of kindred intellects, and sympathy is
not a subject of willing; while Reputation, having its
source in the popular voice, is a sentence which may
either be uttered or suppressed at pleasure. Reputation, being essentially contemporaneous, is always at
the mercy of the envious and the ignorant; but Fame,
whose very birth is posthumous, and which is only
known to exist by the echo of its footsteps through congenial minds, can neither be increased nor diminished
by any degree of will.
35. What light is in the natural world, such is fame
in the intellectual; both requiring an atmosphere in order to become perceptible. Hence the fame of Michael
Angelo is, to some minds, a nonentity; even as the
sun itself would be invisible in vacuo.
36. Fame has no necessary conjunction with Praise:
it may exist without the breath of a word; it is a recog
1,5*
173 
APHORISMS.
nition of excellence, which must be felt, but need not be
spoken. Even the envious must feel it, -feel it, and
hate it, in silence.
37. I cannot believe that any man who deserved
fame ever labored for it; that is, directly. For, as
fame is but the contingent of excellence, it would be
like an attempt to project a shadow, before its substance was obtained. Many, however, have so fancied.
"I write, I paint, for fame," has often been repeated: it
should have been, "I write, I paint, for reputation."
All anxiety, therefore, about Fame should be placed to
the account of Reputation.
38. A man may be pretty sure that he has not attained excellence, when it is not all in all to him. Nay, I
may add, that, if he looks beyond it, he has not reached
it. This is not the less true for being good Irish.
39. An original mind is rarely understood, until it
has been reflected from some half-dozen congenial with
it, so averse are men to admitting the true in an unusual form; whilst any novelty, however fantastic, however false, is greedily swallowed. Nor is this to be
wondered at; for all truth demands a response, and few
people care to think, yet they must have something to
supply the place of thought. Every mind would appear original, if every man had the power of projecting
his own into the mind of others.
40. All effort at originality must end either in the
quaint or the monstrous. For no man knows himself
as an original; he can only believe it on the report of
others to whom he is made known, as he is by the projecting power before spoken of.
174 
APHORISMS.
41. There is one thing which no man, however generously disposed, can give, but which every one, however poor, is bound to pay. This is Praise. He cannot
give it, because it is not his own,- since what is dependent for its very existence on something in another
can never become to him a possession; nor can he justly withhold it, when the presence of merit claims it as
a consequence. As praise, then, cannot be made a gift,
so, neither, when not his due, can any man receive it:
he may think he does, but he receives only words; for
desert being the essential condition of praise, there can
be no reality in the one without the other. This is no
fanciful statement; for, though praise may be withheld
by the ignorant or envious, it cannot be but that, in
the course of time, an existing merit will, on some one,
produce its effects; inasmuch as the existence of any
cause without its effect is an impossibility. A fearful
truth lies at the bottom of this, an irreversible justice
for the weal or woe of him who confirms or violates it.
[From the back of a pencil sketch.]
LET no man trust to the gentleness, the generosity, or
seeming goodness of his heart, in the hope that they
alone can safely bear him through the temptations of
this world. This is a state of probation, and a perilous
passage to the true beginning of life, where even the
best natures need continually to be reminded of their
weakness, and to find their only security in steadily referring all their thoughts, acts, affections, to the ultimate end of their being: yet where, imperfect as we
are, there is no obstacle too mighty, no temptation
175 
APHORISMS.
too strong, to the truly humble in heart, who, distrusting themselves, seek to be sustained only by that holy
Being who is life and power, and who, in his love and
mercy, has promised to give to those that ask.- Such
were my reflections, to which I was giving way on reading this melancholy story.
If he is satisfied with them, he may rest assured that
he is neither fitted for this world nor the next. Even
in this, there are wrongs and sorrows which no human
remedy can reach; -no, tears cannot restore what is
lost.
[Written in a book of sketches, with a pencil.]
A REAL debt of gratitude- that is, founded on a disinterested act of kindness - cannot be cancelled by any
subsequent unkindness on the part of our benefactor.
If the favor be of a pecuniary nature, we may, indeed,
by returning an equal or greater sum, balance the moneyed part; but we cannot liquidate the kind motive by
the setting off against it any number of unkind ones.
For an after injury can no more undo a previous kindness, than we can prevent in the future what has happened in the past. So neither can a good act undo an
ill one: a fearful truth! For good and evil have a moral
life, which nothing in time can extinguish; the instant
they exist, they start for Eternity.  How, then, can a
man who has once sinned, and who has not of himself
cleansed his soul, be fit for heaven where no sin can enter?  I seek not to enter into the mystery of the atonement, " which even the angels sought to comprehend
and could not"; but I feel its truth in an unutterable
conviction, and that, without it, all flesh must perish.
Equally deep, too, and unalienable, is my conviction
that "the fruit of sin is misery."  A second birth to the
176 
APHORISMS.
soul is therefore a necessity which sin forces upon us.
Ay, - but not against the desperate will that rejects it.
This conclusion was not anticipated when I wrote
the first sentence of the preceding paragraph. But it
does not surprise me. For it is but a recurrence of what
I have repeatedly experienced; namely, that I never lighted on any truth which I inwardlyfelt as such, however
apparently remote from our religious being, (as, for instance, in the philosophy of my art,) that, by following
it out, did not find its illustration and confirmation in
some great doctrine of the Bible, - the only true philosophy, the sole fountain of light, where the dark questions of the understanding which have so long stood,
like chaotic spectres, between the fallen soul and its
reason, at once lose their darkness and their terror.
177  
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC  
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.*
He would not taste, but swallowed life at once;
And scarce had reached his prime ere he had bolted,
With all its garnish, mixed of sweet and sour,
Full fourscore years. For he, in truth, did wot not
What most he craved, and so devoured all;
Then, with his gases, followed Indigestion,
Making it food for night-mares and their foals.
Bridgen.t
IT was the opinion of an ancient philosopher, that we
can have noc want for which Nature does not provide an
appropriate gratification. As it regards our physical
wants, this appears to be true. But there are moral
cravings which extend beyond the world we live in; and,
were we in a heathen age, would serve us with an unanswerable argument for the immortality of the soul.
That these cravings are felt by all, there can be no
doubt; yet that all feel them in the same degree would
be as absurd to suppose, as that every mall possesses
equal sensibility or understanding. Boswell's desires,
from his own account, seem to have been limited to
reading Shakspeare in the other world, - whether with
or without his commentators, he has left us to guess;
* First printed in 1821, in " The Idle Man," No. II. p. 38.
t A feigned name, - Editor.
16 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
and Newton probably pined for the sight of those distant
stars whose light has not yet reached us. What originally was the particular craving of my own mind I cannot now recall; but that I had, even in my boyish days,
an insatiable desire after something which always eluded
me, I well remember. As I grew into manhood, my desires became less definite; and by the time I had passed
through college, they seemed to have resolved themselves into a general passion for doing.
It is needless to enumerate the different subjects
which one after another engaged me. Mathematics,
metaphysics, natural and moral philosophy, were each
begun, and each in turn given up in a passion of love
and disgust.
It is the fate of all inordinate passions to meet their
extremes; so was it with mine. Could I have pursued
any of these studies with moderation, I might have been
to this day, perhaps, both learned and happy. But I
could be moderate in nothing. Not content with being
employed, I must always be busy; and business, as
every one knows, if long continued, must end in fatigue,
and fatigue in disgust, and disgust in change, if that be
practicable, - which unfortunately was my case.
The restlessness occasioned by these half-finished
studies brought on a severe fit of self-examination.
Why is it, I asked myself, that these learned works,
which have each furnished their authors with sufficient
excitement to effect their completion, should thus weary
me before I get midway into them? It is plain enough.
As a reader I am merely a recipient, but the composer
is an active agent; a vast difference! And now I can
account for the singular pleasure, which a certain bad
poet of my acquaintance always took in inflicting his
verses on every one who would listen to him; each pe
182 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
rusal being but a sort of mental echo of the original
bliss of composition. I will set about writing immediately.
Having, time out of mind, heard the epithet great
coupled with Historians, it was that, I believe, inclined
me to write a history. I chose my subject, and began
collating, and transcribing, night and day, as if I had
not another hour to live; and on I went with the industry of a steam-engine; when it one day occurred to me,
that, though I had been laboring for months, I had not
yet had occasion for one original thought. Pshaw!
said I,'t is only making new clothes out of old ones.
I will have nothing more to do with history.
As it is natural for a mind suddenly disgusted with
mechanic toil to seek relief from its opposite, it can
easily be imagined that my next resource was Poetry.
Every one rhymes now-a-days, and so can I. Shall I
write an Epic, or a Tragedy, or a Metrical Romance?
Epics are out of fashion; even Homer and Virgil would
hardly be read in our time, but that people are unwilling
to admit their schooling to have been thrown away.
As to Tragedy, I am a modern, and it is a settled thing
that no modern can write a tragedy; so I must not
attempt that. Then for Metrical Romances, -why,
they are now manufactured; and, as the Edinburgh
Review says, may be " imported" by us "in bales."  I
will bind myself to no particular class, but give free play
to my imagination. With this resolution I went to
bed, as one going to be inspired. The morning came;
I ate my breakfast, threw up the window, and placed
myself in my elbow-chair before it. An hour passed,
and nothing occurred to me. But this I ascribed to a
fit of laughter that seized me, at seeing a duck made
drunk by eating rum-cherries I turned my back on the
183 
THIE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
window. Another hour followed, then another, and
another: I was still as far from poetry as ever; every
object about me seemed bent against my abstraction;
the card-racks fascinating me like serpents, and compelling me to read, as if I would get them by heart, " Dr.
Joblin," "Mr. Cumberback," " Mr. Milton Bull," &c. &c
I took up my pen, drew a sheet of paper from my writing-desk, and fixed my eyes upon that; -'t was all in
vain; I saw nothing on it but the watermark, D. Ames.
I laid down the pen, closed my eyes, and threw my
head back in the chair.  "Are you waiting to be shaved,
Sir?" said a familiar voice. I started up, and overturned my servant.  " No, blockhead! "-" I am waiting to
be inspired "; - but this I added mentally. What is the
cause of my difficulty? said I.  Something within me
seemed to reply, in the words of Lear, "Nothing comes
of nothing." Then I must seek a subject. I ran over
a dozen in a few minutes, chose one after another, and,
though twenty thoughts very readily occurred on each,
I was fain to reject them all; some for wanting pith,
some for belonging to prose, and others for having been
worn out in the service of other poets. In a word, my
eyes began to open on the truth, and I felt convinced
that that only was poetry which a man writes because
he cannot help writing; the irrepressible effluence of his
secret being on every thing in sympathy with it, -a
kind of flowering of the soul amid the warmth and the
light of nature. I am no poet, I exclaimed, and I will
not disfigure Mr. Ames with commonplace verses.
I know not how I should have borne this second disappointment, had not the title of a new Novel, which
then came into my head, suggested a trial in that branch
of letters. I will write a Novel. Having come to this
determination, the next thing was to collect materials.
184 
THE HIIYPOCHONDRIAC.
They must be sought after, said I, for my late experiment has satisfied me that I might wait for ever in my
elbow-chair, and they would never come to me; they
must be toiled for, -not in books, if I would not deal
in second-hand, - but in the world, that inexhaustible
storehouse of all kinds of originals. I then turned over
in my mind the various characters I had met with in
life; amongst these a few only seemed fitted for any
story, and those rather as accessories; such as a politician who hated popularity, a sentimental grave-digger,
and a metaphysical rope-dancer; but for a hero, the
grand nucleus of my fable, I was sorely at a loss. This,
however, did not discourage me. I knew he might be
found in the world, if I would only take the trouble to
look for him.  For this purpose I jumped into the first
stage-coach that passed my door; it was immaterial
whither bound, my object being mien, not places. My
first day's journey offered nothing better than a sailor
who rebuked a member of Congress for swearing. But
at the third stage, on the second day, as we were changing horses, I had the good fortune to light on a face
which gave promise of all I wanted. It was so remarkable that I could not take my eyes from it; the forehead
might have been called handsome but for a pair of enormous eyebrows, that seemed to project from it like the
quarter-galleries of a ship, and beneath these were a
couple of small, restless, gray eyes, which, glancing in
every direction from under their shaggy brows, sparkled
like the intermittent light of fire-flies; in the nose there
was nothing remarkable, except that it was crested by a
huge wart with a small grove of black hairs; but the
mouth made ample amends, being altogether indescribable, for it was so variable in its expression, that I
could not tell whether it had most of the sardonic, the
16*
185 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
benevolent, or the sanguinary, appearing to exhibit them
all in succession with equal vividness. My attention,
however, was mainly fixed by the sanguinary; it came
across me like an east wind, and I felt a cold sweat
damping my linen; and when this was suddenly succeeded by the benevolent, I was sure I had got at the
secret of his character, -no less than that of a murderer
haunted by remorse. Delighted with this discovery, I
made up my mind to follow the owner of the face wherever he went, till I should learn his history. I accordingly made an end of my journey for the present, upon
learning that the stranger was to pass some time in the
place where we stopped. For three days I made minute
inquiries; but all I could gather was, that he had been
a great traveller, though of what country no one could
tell me. On the fourth day, finding him on the move,
I took passage in the same coach. Now, said I, is my
time of harvest. But I was mistaken; for, in spite of
all the lures which I threw out to draw him into a communicative humor, I could get nothing from him but
monosyllables. So far from abating my ardor, this
reserve only the more whetted my curiosity. At last
we stopped at a pleasant village in New Jersey. Here he
seemed a little better known; the innkeeper inquiring
after his health, and the hostler asking if the balls he
had supplied him with fitted the barrels of his pistols.
The latter inquiry I thought was accompanied by a significant glance, that indicated a knowledge on the hosftler's part of more than met the ear; I determined therefore to sound him. After a few general remarks, that
had nothing to do with any thing, by way of introduction, I began by hinting some random surmises as to
the use to which the stranger might have put the pistols he spoke of; inquired whether he was in the habit
186 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
of loading them at night; whether he slept with them
under his pillow; if he was in the practice of burning a
light while he slept; and if he did not sometimes awake
the family by groans, or by walking with agitated steps
in his chamber. But it was all in vain, the man protesting that he never knew any thing ill of him. Perhaps, thought I, the hostler having overheard his midnight wanderings, and detected his crime, is paid for
keeping the secret. I pumped the landlord, and the
landlady, and the barmaid, and the chambermaid, and
the waiters, and the cook, and every thing that could
speak in the house; still to no purpose, each ending his
reply with, "Lord, Sir, he's as honest a gentleman, for
aught I know, as any in the world "; then would come
a question, - "But perhaps you know something of him
yourself?"  Whether my answer, though given in the
negative, was uttered in such a tone as to imply an
affirmative, thereby exciting suspicion, I cannot tell; but
it is certain that I soon after perceived a visible change
towards him in the deportment of the whole household.
When he spoke to the waiters, their jaws fell, their fingers spread, their eyes rolled, with every symptom of involuntary action; and once, when he asked the landlady
to take a glass of wine with him, I saw her, under pretence of looking out of the window, throw it into the
street; in short, the very scullion fled at his approach,
and a chambermaid dared not enter his room unless
under guard of a large mastiff. That these circumstances were not unobserved by him will appear by
what follows.
Though I had come no nearer to facts, this general
suspicion, added to the remarkable circumstance that rno
one had ever heard his name (being known only as the
gentleman), gave every day new life to my hopes.  He
187 
THE ItYPOCIONDRIAC.
is the very man, said I; and I began to revel in all the
luxury of detection, when, as I was one night undressing for bed, my attention was caught by the following
letter on my table.
" SIR,
"If you are the gentleman you would be thought, you
will not refuse satisfaction for the diabolical calumnies
you have so unprovokedly circulated against an innocent man.
"Your obedient servant,
"TIMOLEON BuB.
"P. S.  I shall expect you at five o'clock to-morrow
morning, at the three elms, by the river-side."
This invitation, as may be well imagined, discomposed me not a little. Who Mr. Bub was, or in what
way I had injured him, puzzled me exceedingly. Perhaps, thought I, he has mistaken me for another person;
if so, my appearing on the ground will soon set matters
right. With this persuasion I went to bed, somewhat
calmer than I should otherwise have been; nay, I was
even composed enough to divert myself with the folly
of one bearing so vulgar an appellation taking it into
his head to play the man of honor, and could not help
a waggish feeling of curiosity to see if his name and
person were in keeping.
I woke myself in the morning with a loud laugh, for
I had dreamt of meeting, in the redoubtable Mr. Bub, a
little pot-bellied man, with a round face, a red snubnose, and a pair of gooseberry wall-eyes. My fit of
pleasantry was far from passed off when I came in sight
of the fatal elms. I saw my antagonist pacing the
188 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
ground with considerable violence. Ah! said I, he is
trying to escape from his unheroic name! and I laughed
again at the conceit; but, as I drew a little nearer, there
appeared a majestic altitude in his figure very unlike
what I had seen in my dreanm, and my laugh began to
stiffen into a kind of rigid grin. There now came upon
me something very like a misgiving that the affair might
turn out to be no joke. I felt anl unaccountable wish
that this Mr. Bub had never been born; still I advanced:
but if an aerolite had fallen at my feet, I could not have
been more startled, than when I found in the person
of my challenger - the mysterious stranger. The consequences of my curiosity immediately rushed upon
me, and I wqis no longer at a loss in what way I had
injured him. All my merriment seemed to curdle within me; and I felt like a dog that had got his head into
a jug, and suddenly finds he cannot extricate it.  "Well
met, Sir," said the stranger; "now take your ground,
and abide the consequences of your infernal insinuations."  "Upon my word," replied I, -" upon my honor,
Sir," - and there I stuck, for in truth I knew not what
it was I was going to say; when the stranger's second,
advancing, exclaimed, in a voice which I immediately
recognized, "Why,  zounds! Rainbow,  are you the
man?"  "Is it you, Harman?"  "What! " continued
he, "my old classmate Rainbow turned slanderer?  Inmpossible! Indeed, Mr. Bub, there must be some mistake here."  " None, Sir," said the stranger; "I have it
on the authority of my respectable landlord, that, ever
since this gentleman's arrival, he has been incessant in
his attempts to blacken my character with every person
at the iin."  "Nay, my friend"         But I put an end
to Harman's further defence of me, by taking him aside,
and frankly confessing the whole truth. It was with
189 
TIIE HYPOCIIONDRIAC.
some difficulty I could get through the explanation,
being frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter from
my auditor; which, indeed, I now began to think very
natural.  In a word, to cut the story short, my friend
having repeated the conference verbatilm to Mr. Bub, he
was good-natured enough to join in the mirth, saying,
with one of his best sardonics, he "had always had a
misgiving that his unlucky ugly face would one day or
other be the death of somebody." Well, we passed the
day together, and having cracked a social bottle after
dinner, parted, I believe, as heartily friends as we should
have been (which is saying a great deal) had he indeed
proved the favorite villain in my Novel.  But, alas 
with the loss of my villain, away went the Novel.
Here again I was at a stand; and in vain did I torture my brains for another pursuit. But why should I
seek one? In fortune I have a competence, -why not
be as independent in mind? There are thousands in
the world whose sole object in life is to attain the means
of living without toil; and what is any literary pursuit
but a series of mental labor, ay, and oftentimes more
wearying to the spirits than that of the body. Upon
the whole, I came to the conclusion, that it was a very
foolish thing to do any thing. So I seriously set about
trying to do nothing.
Well, what with whistling, hammering down all the
nails in the house that had started, paring my nails,
pulling my fire to pieces and rebuilding it, changing my
clothes to full dress though I dined alone, trying to
make out the figure of a Cupid on my discolored ceiling, and thinking of a lady I had not thought of for ten
years before, I got along the first week tolerably well.
But by the middle of the second week, -'t was horrible!
the hours seemed to roll over me like mill-stones. When
190 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
I awoke in the morning I felt like an Indian devotee,
the day coming upon me like the great temple of Juggernaut; cracking of my bones beginning after breakfast; and if I had any respite, it was seldom for more
than half an hour, when a newspaper seemed to stop
the wheels;-then away they went, crack, crack, noon
and afternoon, till I found myself by night reduced to
a perfect jelly,- good for nothing but to be ladled into
bed, with a greater horror than ever at the thought of
sunrise.
This will never do, said I; a toad in the heart of a
tree lives a more comfortable life than a nothing-doing
man; and I began to perceive a very deep meaning in
the truism of "something being better than nothing."
But is a precise object always necessary to the mind?
No: if it be but occupied, no matter with what. That
may easily be done. I have already tried the sciences,
and made abortive attempts in literature, but I have
never yet tried what is called general reading; - that,
thank Heaven, is a resource inexhaustible. I will henceforth read only for amusement. My first experiment in
this way was on Voyages and Travels, with occasional
dippings into Shipwrecks, Murders, and Ghost-stories.
It succeeded beyond my hopes; month after month
passing away like days, and as for days, -I almost
fancied that I could see the sun move. How comfortable, thought I, thus to travel over the world in my closet!
how delightful to double Cape Horn and cross the African Desert in my rocking-chair,-  to traverse Caffraria
and the Mogul's dominions in the same pleasant vehicle!
This is living to some purpose; one day dining on barbecued pigs in Otaheite; the next in danger of perishing
amidst the snows of Terra del Fuego; then to have a
lion cross my path in the heart of Africa; to run for my
191 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
life from a wounded rhinoceros, and sit, by mistake, on
a sleeping boa-constrictor; -this, this, said I, is life!
Even the dangers of the sea were but healthful stimulants. If I met with a tornado, it was only an agreeable
variety; water-spouts and ice-islands gave me no manner
of alarm; and I have seldom been more composed than
when catching a whale. In short, the ease with which
I thus circumnavigated the globe, and conversed with
all its varieties of inhabitants, expanded my benevolence; I found every place, and everybody in it, even
to the Hottentots, vastly agreeable. But, alas! I was
doomed to discover that this could not last for ever.
Though I was still curious, there were no longer curiosities; for the world is limited, and new countries, and
new people, like every thing else, wax stale on acquaintance; even ghosts and hurricanes become at last familiar; and books grow old, like those who read them.
I was now at what sailors call a dead lift; being too
old to build castles for the future, and too dissatisfied
with the life I had led to look back on the past. In this
state of mind, I bought me a snuffbox; for, as I could
not honestly recommend my disjointed self to any decent woman, it seemed a kind of duty in me to contract
such habits as would effectually prevent my taking in
the lady I had once thought of.  I set to, snuffing away
till I made my nose sore, and lost my appetite. I then
threw my  snuffbox into the fire, and took to cigars.
This change appeared to revive me. For a short time
I thought myself in Elysium, and wondered I had never
tried them before.   Thou  fragrant weed!  0, that I
were a Dutch poet, I exclaimed, that I might render due
honor to thy unspeakable virtues!  Ineffable tobacco!
Every puff seemed like oil poured upon troubled waters,
and I felt an inexpressible calmness stealing over my
192 
THE  lIYPOCIIONDRIAC.
frame; in truth, it seemed like a benevolent spirit reconciling my soul to my body. But moderation, as I have
before said, was never one of my virtues.  I walked my
room, pouring out volumes like a moving glass-house.
My apartment was soon filled with smoke; I looked in
the glass and hardly knew myself, my eyes peering at
me, through the curling atmosphere, like those of a poodle. I then retired to the opposite end, and surveyed
the furniture; nothing retained its original form or position;-the tables and chairs seemed to loom from the
floor, and my grandfather's picture to thrust forward its
nose like a French-horn, while that of my grandmother,
who was reckoned a beauty in her day, looked, in her
hoop, like her husband's wig-block stuck on a tub.
Whether this was a signal for the fiends within me to
begin their operations, I know not; but from that day I
began to be what is called nervous.   The uninterrupted
health I had hitherto enjoyed now seemned the greatest
curse that could have befallen me. I had never had the
usual itinerant distempers; it was very unlikely that I
should always escape them; and the dread of their coming upon me in my advanced age made me perfectly
miserable. I scarcely dared to stir abroad; had sandbags put to my doors to keep out the measles; forbade
my neighbours' children playing in my yard to avoid
the whooping-cough; and, to prevent infection from the
small-pox, I ordered all my  male servants' heads to be
shaved, made the coachman and footman wear tow
wigs, and had them both regularly smoked whenever
they returned from the neighbouring town, before they
were allowed to enter my presence.  Nor were these all
my miseries; in fact, they were but a sort of running
base to a thousand other strange and frightful fancies;
the mere skleleton to a wh    tole' bvdy-ori)()rate of horrors.
193
I1' 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
I became dreamy, was haunted by what I had read,
frequently finding a Hottentot, or a boa-constrictor, in
my bed. Sometimes I fancied myself buried in one of
the pyramids of Egypt, breaking my shins against the
bones of a sacred cow. Then I thought myself a kangaroo, unable to move because somebody had cut off
my tail.
In this miserable state I one evening rushed out of
my house. I know not how far, or how long, I had
been fronm home, when, hearing a well-known voice, I
suddenly stopped. It seemed to belong to a face that I
knew; yet how I should know it somewhat puzzled
me, being then fully persuaded that I was a Chinese
Josh. My friend (as I afterwards learned he was) invited me to go to his club. This, thought I, is one of
my worshippers, and they have a right to carry me
wherever they please; accordingly I suffered myself to
be led.
I soon found myself in an American tavern, and in
the midst of a dozen grave gentlemen who were emptying a large bowl of punch. They each saluted me, some
calling me by name, others saying they were happy to
make my acquaintance; but what appeared quite unaccountable was my not only understanding their language, but knowing it to be English. A kind of reaction now began to take place in my brain. Perhaps,
said I, I am not a Josh. I was urged to pledge my
friend in a glass of punch; I did so; my friend's friend,
and his friend, and all the rest, in succession, begged to
have the same honor; I complied, again and again,
till at last, the punch having fairly turned my head
topsy-turvy, righted my understanding; and I found
myself nmyself
'This happy change gave a pleasant fillip to my spir
194 
THllE HYPOCHIONDRIAC.
its. I returned home, found no monster in my bed, and
slept quietly till near noon the next day. I arose with
a slight headache and a great admiration of punch; resolving, if I did not catch the measles from my late adventure, to make a second visit to the club. No symptoms appearing, I went again; and my reception was
such as led to a third, and a fourth, and a fifth visit,
when I became a regular member.  I believe my inducement to this was a certain unintelligible something in
three or four of my new associates, which at once gratified and kept alive my curiosity, ill their letting out just
enough of themselves while I was with them to excite
me when alone to speculate on what was kept back.
I wondered I had never met with such characters in
books; and the kind of interest they awakened began
gradually to widen to others. Henceforth I will live in
the world, said I;'t is my only remedy. A man's own
affairs are soon conned; he gets them by heart till they
haunt him when he would be rid of them; but those of
another can be known only in part, while that which
remains unrevealed is a never-ending stimulus to curiosity.  The only natural mode, therefore, of preventing
the mind preying on itself, -the only rational, because
the only interminable employment, - is to be busy
about other people's business.
The variety of objects which this new course of life
each day presented, brought me at length to a state of
sanity; at least, I was no longer disposed to conjure
up remote dangers to my door, or chew the cud on my
iiidigested past reading; though sometimes, I confess,
when I have been tempted to meddle with a very bad
character, I have invariably been threatened with a relapse; which leads me to think the existence of some
secret affinity between rogues and boa-constrictors is not
195 
THFE IIYPOCIIONDRIAC.
unlikely. In a short time, however, I had every reason
to believe myself completely cured; for the days began
to appear of their natural length, and I no longer saw
every thing through a pair of blue spectacles, but found
nature diversified by a thousand beautiful colors, and
the people about me a thousand times more interesting
than hyenas or Hottentots. The world is now my only
study, and I trust I shall stick to it for the sake of my
health.
196 
POEM S.
I.   
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS,
A POET'S DREAM.
PREFATORY NOTE.
As it may be objected to the following poem, that some of
the images there introduced are not wholly peculiar to the Season described, the author begs leave to state, that, both in their
selection and disposition, he was guided by that, which, in his
limited experietue, was found to be the Season of their greatest impression; and, though he has not always felt the necessity of pointing out the collateral causes by which the effect was
increased, he yet flatters himself that, in general, they are
sufficiently implied either by what follows or precedes them.
Thus, for instance, the running brook, though by no means
peculiar, is appropriated to Spring; as affording by its motion
and seeming exultation one of the most lively images of that
spirit of renovation which animates the earth after its temporary
suspension during the Winter.  By the same rule is assigned to
Summer the placid lake, &c., not because that image is never
seen, or enjoyed, at any other season; but on account of its
affecting us more in Summer, than either in the Spring, or in 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
Autumn;  the indolence and languor generally then experienced disposing us to dwell with particular delight on such an
object of repose, not to mention the grateful idea of coolness
derived from a knowledge of its temperature. Thus, also, the
evening cloud, exhibiting a fleeting representation of successive
objects, is, perhaps, justly appropriated to Autumn, as in that
season the general decay of inanimate nature leads the mind
to turn upon itself, and without effort to apply almost every
image of sense, or vision of the imagination, to its own transitory state.
If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be
not, it would be useless.
LONG has it been my fate to hear
The slave of Mammon, with a sneer,
My indolence reprove.
Ah, little knows he of the care,
The toil, the hardship, that I bear,
While lolling in my elbow-chair,
And seeming scarce to move!
For, mounted on the Poet's steed,
I Ithere my ceaseless journey speed
O'er mountain, wood, and stream;
And oft within a little day
'Mid comets fierce't is mine to stray,
And wander o'er the Milky-way,
To catch a Poet's dream.
200 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
But, would the Man of Lucre know
What riches from my labors flow,
A DREAM is my reply.
And who for wealth has ever pined,
That had a World within his mind,
Where every treasure he may find,
And joys that never die?
One night, my task diurnal done,
(For I had travelled with the Sun
O'er burning sands, o'er snows,)
Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest;
My wonted prayer to Heaven addressed;
But scarce had I my pillow pressed,
When thus a vision rose.
Methought within a desert cave,
Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,
I suddenly awoke.
It seemed of sable Night the cell,
Where, save when from the ceiling fell
An oozing drop, her silent spell
No sound had ever broke.
There motionless I stood alone,
Like some strange monument of stone
Upon a barren wild;
Or like (so solid and profound
The darkness seemed that walled me round)
A man that's buried under ground,
Where pyramids are piled.
201 
THE SYLPIIS OF THE SEASONS.
Thus fixed, a dreadful hour I past;
And now I heard, as from a blast,
A voice pronounce my name:
Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,
When round me'gan the air to melt,
And motion once again I felt
Quick circling o'er my frame.
Again it called; and then a ray,
That seemed a gushing fount of day,
Across the cavern streamed.
Half struck with terror and delight,
I hailed the little, blessed light,
And followed till my aching sight
An orb of darkness seemed.'
Nor long I felt the blinding pain;
For soon upon a mountain plain
I gazed with wonder new.
There high a castle reared its head;
And far below a region spread,
Where every Season seemed to shed
Its own peculiar hue.
Now at the castle's massy gate,
Like one that's blindly urged by fate,
A bugle-horn I blew.
The mountain-plain it shook around,
The vales returned a hollow sound,
And, moving with a sigh profound,
The portals open flew.
202 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
Then entering, from a glittering hall
I heard a voice seraphic call,
That bade me, " Ever reign!"
" All hail!" it said, in accent wild,
" For thou art Nature's chosen child,
Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defiled;
Hail, Lord of this Domain!"
And now I paced a bright saloon,
That seemed illumined by the moon,
So mellow was the light.
The walls with jetty darkness teemed,
While down them crystal columns streamed,
And each a mountain torrent seemed,
High-flashing through the night
Reared iil the midst, a double throne
Like burnished cloud of evening shone;
While, grouped the base around,
Four Damsels stood of Faery race;
Who, turning each with heavenly grace
Upon me her immortal face,
Transfixed me to the ground.
And thus the foremost of the train:"Be thine the throne, and thine to reign
O'er all the varying year!
But, ere thou rul'st, the Fates command,
That of our chosen rival band
A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand,
Thy sovereignty to share.
203 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
" For we, the sisters of a birth,
Do rule by turns the subject earth,
To serve ungrateful man;
But, since our varied toils impart
No joy to his capricious heart,
'T is now ordained that human art
Shall rectify the plan."
Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene:"'T is I thy joyous heart, I ween,
With sympathy shall move;
For I with living melody
Of birds, in choral symphony,
First waked thy soul to poesy,
To piety and love.
"When thou, at call of vernal breeze,
And beckoning bough of budding trees,
Hast left thy sullen fire,
And stretched thee in some mossy dell,
And heard the browsing wether's bell,
Blithe echoes rousing from their cell
To swell the tinkling choir:
"Or heard from branch of flowering thorn
The song of friendly cuckoo warn
The tardy-moving swain;
Hast bid the purple swallow hail,
And seen him now through ether sail,
Now sweeping downward o'er the vale,
And skimming now the plain;
204 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
" Then, catching with a sudden glance
The bright and silver-clear expanse
Of some broad river's stream,
Beheld the boats adown it glide,
And motion wind again the tide,
Where, chained in ice by Winter's pride,
Late rolled the heavy team:
"Or, lured by some fresh-scented gale,
That wooed the moored fisher's sail
To tempt the mighty main,
Hast watched the dim, receding shore,
Now faintly seen the ocean o'er,
Like hanging cloud, and now no more
To bound the sapphire plain;
"Then, wrapt in night, the scudding bark,
(That seemed, self-poised amid the dark,
Through upper air to leap,)
Beheld, from thy most fearful height,
The rapid dolphin's azure light
Cleave, like a living meteor bright,
The darkness of the deep:
"'T was mine the warm, awakening hand,
That made thy grateful heart expand,
And feel the high control
Of Him, the mighty Power, that moves
Amid the waters and the groves,
And through his vast creation proves
His omnipresent soul.
s18
205 
THIE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
" Or, brooding o'er some forest rill,
Fringed with the early daffodil
And quivering maiden-hair,
When thou hast marked the dusky bed,
With leaves and water-rust o'erspread,
That seemed an amber light to shed
On all was shadowed there;
"And thence, as by its murmur called,
The current traced to where it brawled
Beneath the noontide ray,
And there beheld the checkered shade
Of waves, in many a sinuous braid,
That o'er the sunny channel played,
With motion ever gay:
"'T was I to these the magic gave,
That made thy heart, a willing slave,
To gentle Nature bend,
And taught thee how, with tree and flower,
And whispering gale, and dropping shower,
In converse sweet to pass the hour,
As with an early friend;
" That'mid the noontide, sunny haze
Did in thy languid bosom raise
The raptures of the boy,
When, waked as if to second birth,
Thy soul through every pore looked forth,
And gazed upon the beauteous Earth
With myriad eyes of joy;
206 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
"That made thy heart, like His above,
To flow with universal love
For every living thing.
And, O! if' I, with ray divine,
Thus tempering, did thy soul refine,
Then let thy gentle heart be mine,
And bless the Sylph of Spring."
And next the Sylph of Summer fair,
The while her crisped, golden hair
Half veiled her sunny eyes:"Nor less may I thy homage claim,
At touch of whose exhaling flame
The fog of Spring, that chilled thy frame,
In genial vapor flies.
"Oft by the heat of noon oppressed,
With flowing hair and open vest,
Thy footsteps have I won
To mossy couch of welling grot,
Where thou hast blessed thy happy lot,
That thou in that delicious spot
Mayst see, not feel, the sun:
"Thence tracing from the body's change,
In curious philosophic range,
The motion of the mind;
And how from thought to thought it flew,
Still hoping in each vision new
The faery land of bliss to view,
But ne'er that land to find.
207 
THiE SYLPHS OF TIIE SEASONS.
"And then, as grew thy languid mood,
To some eunbowering, silent wood
I led thy careless way;
Where high, from tree to tree, in air
Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare,
So bright! - as if, entangled there,
The sun had left a ray:
" Or lured thee to some beetling steep,
To mark the deep and quiet sleep
That wrapt the tarn below;
And mountain blue and forest green
Inverted on its plane serene,
Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen
That glazed the painted show;
"Perchance, to mark the fisher's skiff
Swift from beneath some shadowy cliff
Dart, like a gust of wind;
And, as she skimmed the sunny lake,
In many a playful wreath her wake
Far trailing, like a silvery snake,
With sinuous length behind.
" Not less,when hill and dale and heath
Still Evening wrapt in mimic death,
Thy spirit true I proved:
Around thee, as the darkness stole,
Before thy wild, creative soul
I bade each faery vision roll,
Thine infancy had loved.
208 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
" Then o'er the silent, sleeping land,
Thy fancy, like a magic wand,
Forth called the Elfin race:
And now around the fountain's brim
In circling dance they gayly skim,
And now upon its surface swim,
And water-spiders chase;
"Each circumstance of sight or sound
Peopling the vacant air around
With visionary life:
For, if amid a thicket stirred
Or flitting bat, or wakeful bird,
Then straight thy eager fancy heard
The din of Faery strife;
"Now, in the passing beetle's hum,
The Elfin army's goblin drum
To pigmy battle sound;
And now, where dripping dew-drops plash
On waving grass, their bucklers clash,
And now their quivering lances flash,
Wide dealing death around:
" Or, if the moon's effulgent form
The passing clouds of sudden storm
In quick succession veil,
Vast serpents now their shadows glide,
And, coursing now the mountain's side,
A band of giants huge they stride
O'er hill, and wood, and dale.
185
209 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
" And still on many a service rare
Could I descant, if need there were,
My firmer claim to bind;
But rest I most my high pretence
On that my genial influence,
Which made the body's indolence
The vigor of the mind."
And now, in accents deep and low,
Like voice of fondly-cherished woe,
The Sylph of Autumn sad:"4 Though I may not of raptures sing,
That graced the gentle song of Spring,
Like Summer, playful pleasures bring,
Thy youthful heart to glad;
"Yet still may I in hope aspire
Thy heart to touch with chaster fire,
And purifying love:
For I with vision high and holy,
And spell of quickeuing melancholy,
Thy soul from sublunary folly
First raised to worlds above.
" What though be mine the treasures fair
Of purple grape, and yellow pear,
And fruits of various hue,
And harvests rich of golden grain,
That dance in waves along the plain
To merry song of reaping swain,
Beneath the welkin blue?
210 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
"' With these I may not urge my suit,
Of Summer's patient toil the fruit,
For mortal purpose given:
Nor may it fit my sober mood
To sing of sweetly murmuring flood,
Or dyes of many-colored wood,
That mock the bow of heaven.
' But, know,'t was mine the secret power
That waked thee at the midnight hour
In bleak November's reign:
'T was I the spell around thee cast,
When thou didst hear the hollow blast
In murmurs tell of pleasures past,
That ne'er would come again:
"And led thee, when the storm was o'er,
To hear the sullen ocean roar,
By dreadful calm oppressed;
Which still, though not a breeze was there,
Its mountain-billows heaved in air,
As if a living thing it were,
That strove in vain for rest.
"'T was I, when thou, subdued by woe,
Didst watch the leaves descending slow,
To each a moral gave;
And, as they moved in mournful train,
With rustling sound, along the plain,
Taught them to sing a seraph's strain
Of peace within the grave.
211 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
"And then, upraised thy streaming eye,
I met thee in the western sky
In pomp of evening cloud,
That, while with varying form it rolled,
Some wizard's castle seemed of gold,
And now a crimsoned knight of old,
Or king in purple proud.
"And last, as sunk the setting sun,
And Evening with her shadows dun
The gorgeous pageant past,
'T was then of life a mimic show,
Of human grandeur here below,
Which thus beneath the fatal blow
Of Death must fall at last.
"0, then with what aspiring gaze
Didst thou thy tranced vision raise
To yonder orbs on high,
And think how wondrous, how sublime,
'T were upwards to their spheres to climb,
And live beyond the reach of Time,
Child of Eternity!"
And last the Sylph of Winter spake,
The while her piercing voice did shake
The castle-vaults below:" O youth, if thou, with soul refined,
Hast felt the triumph pure of mind,
And learnt a secret joy to find
In deepest scenes of woe;
212 
THE SYLPIIS OF THlE SEASONS.
"If e'er with fearful ear at eve
Hast heard the wailing tempests grieve
Through chink of shattered wall,
The while it conjured o'er thy brain
Of wandering ghosts a mournful train,
That low in fitful sobs complain
Of Death's untimely call;
"Or feeling, as the storm increased,
The love of terror nerve thy breast,
Didst venture to the coast,
To see the mighty war-ship leap
From wave to wave upon the deep,
Like chlamois goat from steep to steep,
Till-low in valley lost;
"Then, glancing to the angry sky,
Behold the clouds with fury fly
The lurid moon athwart,Like armies huge in battle, throng,
And pour in volleying ranks along,
While piping winds in martial song
To rushing war exhort:
"0, then to me thy heart be given,
To me, ordained by Him in heaven
Thy nobler powers to wake.
And, O! if thou with poet's soul,
High brooding o'er the frozen pole,
Hast felt beneath my stern control
The desert region quake;
213 
THE SYLPHS OF TIIE SEASONS.
"Or from old Hecla's cloudy height,
When o'er the dismal, half-year's night
He pours his sulphurous breath,
Hast known my petrifying wind
Wild ocean's curling billows bind,
Like bending sheaves by harvest hind,
Erect in icy death;
"Or heard adown the mountain's steep
The northern blast with furious sweep
Some cliff dissevered dash,
And seen it spring with dreadful bound,
From rock to rock, to gulf profound,
While echoes fierce from caves resound
The never-ending crash:
"If thus with terror's mighty spell
Thy soul inspired was wont to swell,
Thy heaving frame expand,
0, then to me thy heart incline;
For know, the wondrous charm was mine,
That fear and joy did thus combine
In magic union bland.
"Nor think confined my native sphere
To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear,
Or desolation wild;
For I of pleasures fair could sing,
That steal from life its sharpest sting,
And manl have made around it cling,
Like mother to her child.
214 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
"When thou, beneath the clear blue sky,
So calm no cloud was seen to fly,
Hast gazed on snowy plain,
Where Nature slept so pure and sweet,
She seemed a corse in winding-sheet,
Whose happy soul had gone to meet
The blest Angelic train;
"Or marked the sun's declining ray
In thousand varying colors play
O'er ice-incrusted heath,
In gleams of orange now, and-green,
And now in red and azure sheen,
Like hues on dying dolphin seen,
Most lovely when in death;
"Or seen at davwn of eastern light
The frosty toil of Fays by night
On pane of casement clear,
Where bright the minic glaciers shine,
And Alps, with many a mountain pine,
And armed knights from Palestine
In winding march appear:
"'T was I on each enchanting scene
The charm bestowed, that banished spleen
Thy bosom pure and light.
But still a nobler power I claim,That power allied to poet's fame,
Which language vain has dared to name, -
The soul's creative might.
215 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.
"Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair,
And joyous Spring, demand a share
Of Fancy's hallowed power,
Yet-these I hold of humbler kind,
To grosser means of earth confined,
Through mortal sense to reach the mind,
By mountain, stream, or flower.
"But mine, of purer nature still,
Is that which to thy secret will
Did minister unseen,
Unfelt, unheard, when every sense
Did sleep in drowsy indolence,
And silence deep and night intense
Enshrouded every scene;
"That o'er thy teeming brain did raise
The spirits of departed days'
Through all the varying year,
And images of things remote,
And sounds that long had ceased to float,
With every hue, and every note,
As living now they were;
" And taught thee from the motley mass
Each harmonizing part to class
(Like Nature's self employed);
In a late beautiful poem by Mr. Montgomery is the following line:"';The spirits of departed lhours."   The autlior fearing that so singular a
coincidence of thought and language might subject him to the charge of
plagiarism, thinks it necessary to state that his poem was written long before he had the pleasure of reading Mr. Montgomnery's.
216 
THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS,
And then, as worked thy wayward will,
From these, with rare combining skill,
With new-created worlds to fill
Of space the mighty void.
"0, then to me thy heart incline;
To me, whose plastic powers combine
- The harvest of the mind;
To me whose magic coffers bear
The spoils of all the toiling year,
That still in mental vision wear
A lustre more refined."
She ceased. And now, in doubtful mood,
All motionless and mute I stood,
Like one by charm oppressed:
By turns from each to each I roved,
And each by turns again I loved;
For ages ne'er could one have proved
More lovely than the rest.
" O blessed band, of birth divine,
What mortal task is like to mine? " -
And further had I spoke,
When, lo! there poured a flood of light
So fiercely on my aching sight,
I fell beneath the vision bright,
And with the pain awoke.
19
217 
218
THE TWO PAINTERS,
A TALE.
SAY why in every work of man
Some imperfection mars the plan?
Why joined in every human art
A perfect and imperfect part?
Is it that life for art is short?
Or is it Nature's cruel sport?
Or would she thus a moral teach,
That man should see, but never reacn,
The height of excellence, and show
The vanity of works below?
Or consequence of Pride, or Sloth?
Or rather the effect of both?
Whoe'er on life his eye has cast,
I fear, alas! will say the last.
Once on a time in Charon's wherry
Two Painters met, on Styx's ferry. 
TIIE TWO  PAINTERS.
"Good Sir," said one, with bow profound,
"I joy to meet thee under ground;
And, though with zealous spite we strove
To blast each other's fame above,
Yet here, as neither bay nor laurel
Can tempt us to prolong our quarrel,
I hope the hand which I extend
Will meet the welcome of a friend."
"Sweet Sir," replied the other Shade,
While scorn on either nostril played,
"Thy proffered love were great and kind,
Could I in thee a rival find."
" A rival, Sir! " returned the first,
Ready with rising wind to burst,
" Thy meekness, sure, in this I see;
We are not rivals, I agree:
And therefore am I more inclined
To cherish one of humble mind,
Who apprehends that one above him
Can never condescend to love him."
Nor longer did their courteous guile,
Like serpent, twisting through a smile,
Each other sting in civil phrase,
And poison with envenomed praise;
For now the fiend of anger rose,
Distending each death-withered nose,
And, rolling fierce, each glassy eye,
Like owlet's at the noonday sky,
Such flaming volleys poured of ire
As set old Charon's phlegm on fire.
"Peace! peace!" the grisly boatman cried,
" You drown the roar of Styx's tide.
219 
THF  TWVO  PAINTERS.
Unmannered ghosts! if such your strife,
'T were better you were still in life!
If passions such as these you show,
You'11ll make another Earth below;
Which, sure, would be a viler birth,
Than if we made a HIell on Earth."
At which in loud defensive strain
'Gan speak the angry Shades again.
"I'11 hear no more!" cried he. " No more!"
In echoes hoarse, returned the shore.
"To Minos' court you soon shall hie,
(Chief Justice here);'t is he will try
Your jealous cause, and prove at once
That only dunce can hate a dunce."
Thus checked, in sullen mood they sped,
Nor more on either side was said;
Nor aught the dismal silence broke,
Save only when the boatman's stroke
Deep-whizzing through the wave was heard,
And now and then a spectre-bird,
Low-cowering, with a hungry scream,
For spectre-fishes in the stream.
Now midway passed, the creaking oar
Is heard upon the fronting shore;
Where, thronging round in many a band,
The curious ghosts beset the strand.
Now suddenly the boat they spy,
Like gull diminished in the sky;
And now, like cloud of dusky white,
Slow sailing o'er the deep of night,
oO0 
THE TWVO PAINTERS.
The sheeted group within the bark
Is seen amid the billows dark.
Anon the keel, with grating sound,
They hear upon the pebbly ground,
And now, with kind, officious hand,
They help the ghostly crew to land.
"What news?" they cried with one accord.
"I pray you," said a noble lord,
"Tell me if in the world above
I still retain the people's love;
Or whether they, like us below,
The motives of a Patriot know."
"And me inform," another said,
"What thinli they of a Buck that's dead?
Have they discerned, that, being dull,
I knocked my wit from watchman's skull?"
"And me," cried one, of knotty front,
With many a scar of pride upon't,
"Resolve me if the world opine
Philosophers are still divine;
That, having hearts for friends too small,
Or, rather, having none at all,
Professed to love, with saving grace,
The abstract of the human race."
"And I," exclaimed a fourth, "would ask,
What think they of the Critic's task?
Perceive they now our shallow arts,That merely from the want of parts
To write ourselves, we gravely taught
How books by others should be wrought?"
19*
221 
THE TWVO PAINTERS.
Whom interrupting, then inquired
A fifth, in squalid garb attired,
"Do now the world with much regard
In memory hold the dirty Bard,
Who credit gained for genius rare
By shabby coat and uncombed hair?"
"Or do they," said a Shade of prose,
With many a pimple's ghost on nose,
"The eccentric author still admire,
Who, wanting that same genius' fire,
Diving in cellars underground
In pipe the spark ethereal found, —Which, fanned by many a ribald joke,
From brother tipplers puffed in smoke,
Such blaze diffused, with crackling loud,
As blinded all the staring crowd?"
And last, with jealous-glancing eye,
That seemed in all around to pry,
A Painter's ghost in voice suppressed,
Thus questioning, the group addressed: —.
"Sweet strangers, may I too demand,
How thrive the offspring of my hand?
Whether, as when in life I flourished,
They still by puffs of fame are nourished?
Or whether have the world discerned
The tricks by which my fame was earned;That, lacking in my pencil skill,
I made my tongue its office fill;That, marking (as for love of truth)
In others' works a limb uncouth,
222 
THE  TWO  PAINTERS.
Or face too young, or face too old,
Or color hot, or color cold,
Or hinting, (if to praise betrayed,)
'Though colored well, it yet mightfade,'
And' Though its grace I can't deny,
Yet pity't is so hard and dry,'
I thus by implication showed
That mine were wrought in better mode; —
And, talking thus superiors down,
Obliquely raised my  own renown?
In short, I simply this would ask, -
If Truth has stripped me of the mask,
And, chasing Fashion's mist away,
Exposed me to the eye of day,A Painter false, without a heart,
Who loved himself, and not his art." *
* The author would be sorry to have it supposed that he alludes
here to any individual  for he can say with truth, that such a character
has never fallen under his observation: much less would he be thought to
reflect on the Artists, as a class of men to which such baseness may be
generally imputed.  The case here is merely supposed, to show how easily
imbecility and selfishness may pervert this most innocent of all arts to the
vilest purposes. He may be allowed, also, to disclaim an opinion too generally prevalent; namely, that envy and detraction are the natural offspring of the art.  That Artists should possess a portion of these vices, in
common with Poets, Musicians, and other candidates for fame, is reasonably to be expected; but that they shoutld exclusively monopolize them, or
even hold an undue proportion, it were ungenerous to suppose. The author has known Artists in various countries, and he can truly say, that, with
a very few exceptions, he has found them candid and liberal, prompt to
discover merit, and just in applauding it. If there have been exceptions,
he has also generally been able to trace their cause to the unpropitious coincidence of narrow circumstances, a defective education, and poverty of
intellect. Is it then surprising, that in the hands of such a triumvirate the
art should be degraded to an imposture, to the trick of a juggler? But it
223 
THE TWO  PAINTERS.
At which, with fixed and fishy gaze,
The Strangers both expressed amaze.
"Good Sir," said they,"'t is strange you dare
Such meanness of yourself declare."
"Were I on earth," replied the Shade,
4 "I never had the truth betrayed;
For there (and, I suspect, like you)
I ne'er had time myself to view.
Yet, knowing that'bove all creation
I held myself in estimation,
I deemed that what I loved the best
Of every virtue was possessed.
But here in colors black and true
Men see themselves, who never knew
Their motives in the worldly strife,
Or real characters through life.
And here, alas! I scarce had been
A little day, when every sin
That slumbered in my living breast,
By Minos roused from torpid rest,
Like thousand adders, rushing out,
Entwined my shuddering limbs about.
O strangers, hear! - the truth I tell -
That fearful sight I saw was Hell.
And, O! with what unmeasured woe
Did bitterness upon me flow,
When, thundering through the hissing air,
I heard the sentence of Despair,
surely would be a cause of wonder, if, with such leprous members, the
sound and respectable body of its professors should escape the suspicion
of partaking their contamination.
224 
THE  TWO  PAINTERS.
' Now, never hope from Hell to flee;
Yourself is all the Hell you see!'"
He ceased. But still with stubborn pride
The rival Shades each other eyed;
When, bursting with terrific sound,
Tile voice of Minos shook the ground.
The startled ghosts on either side,
Like clouds before the wind, divide;
And leaving far a passage free,
Each conning his defensive plea,
With many a crafty lure for grace,
The Painters onward hold their pace.
Anon before the Judgment-Seat,
With sneer confronting sneer they meet:
And now in deep and awful strain,
Piercing like fiery darts the brain,
Thus Minos spake: —" Though I am he
From whom no secret thought may flee;
Who sees it ere the birth be known
To him that claims it for his own;
Yet would I still with patience hear
What each may for himself declare,
That all in your defence may see
The justice pure of my decree.
But, hold! - It ill beseems my place
To hear debate in such a case:
Be therefore thou, Da Vinci's shade,
Who when on earth to men displayed
The scattered powers of human kind
In thy capacious soul combined,Be thou the umpire of the strife,
And judge as thou wert still in life."
225 
THE TWO PAINTERS.
Thus bid, with grave, becoming air,
The appointed judge assumed the chair.
And now with modest-seeming air,
The rivals straight for speech prepare;
And thus, with hand upon his breast,
The Senior Ghost the Judge addressed:
"The world (if aught the world I durst
In this believe) did call me first
Of those, who, by the magic play
Of harmonizing colors, sway
The gazer's sense with such surprise,
As makes him disbelieve his eyes.
'T is true that some, of vision dim,
Or squeamish taste, or pedant whim,
My works assailed with narrow spite;
And, passing o'er my color bright,
Reproached me for my want of grace,
And silks and velvets out of place,
And vulgar form, and lame design,
And want of character, - in fine,
For lack of worth of every kind
To charm or to enlarge the mind.
Now this, my Lord, as will appear,
Was nothing less than malice sheer,
To stab me, like assassins dark,
Because I did not hit a mark,
At which (as I have hope of fame)
I never once designed to aim.
For, seeing that the life of man
Was scarcely longer than a span,
And knowing that the Graphic Art
Ne'er mortal mastered but in part,
226 
THE TWO  PAINTERS.
I wisely deemed't were labor vain,
Should I attempt the tvwhlole to gain;
And therefore, with ambition high,
Aspired to reach what pleased the eye;
Which, truly, Sir, must be confessed
A part that far excels the rest:
For if, as all the world agree,
'Twixt Painting and fair Poesy
The difference in the mode be found,
Of color this, and that of sound,
'T is plain, o'er every other grace,
That color holds the highest place;
As being that distinctive part,
Which bounds it from another art.
If, therefore, with reproof severe
I've galled my pigmy Rival here,
'T was only, as your Lordship knows,
Because his foolish envy chose
To rank his classic forms of mud
Above my wholesome flesh and blood."
Thus ended parle the Senior Shade.
And now, as scorning to upbraid,
With curving, parabolic smile,
Contemptuous, eying him the while,
His Rival thus: -"'T were vain, my Lord
To wound a gnat by spear or sword;*
If, therefore, I, of greater might,
Would meet this thing in equal fight,
'T were fit that I in size should be
As mean, diminutive, as he;
* "Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? "- POPEr.
227 
THE TWVO PAIN'rERS
Of course, disdaining to reply,
I pass the wretch unheeded by.
But, since your Lordship deigns to know
What I in my behalf may show,
With due submission, I proclaim,
That few on earth have borne a name
More envied or esteemed than mine,
For grace, expression, and design,
For manners true of every clime,
And composition's art sublime.
In academic lore profound,
I boldly took that lofty ground,
Which, as it raised me near the sky,
Was thence for vulgar eyes too high;
Or, if beheld, to them appeared
By clouds of gloomy darkness bleared.
Yet still that misty height I chose,
For well I knew the world had those
Whose sight, by learning cleared of rheum,
Could pierce with ease the thickest gloom.
Thus, perched sublime,'mid clouds I wrought,
Nor heeded what the vulgar thought.
What, though with clamor coarse and rude
They jested on my colors crude;
Comparing, with malicious grin,
My drapery to bronze and tin,
My flesh to brick and earthen ware,
To wire of various kinds my hair;
Or (if a landscape bit they saw)
My trees to pitchforks crowned with straw,
My clouds to pewter plates of thin edge,
And fields to dish of eggs and spinage;
228 
THE TWO PAINTERS.
Yet this and many a grosser rub,
Like famed Diogenes in tub,
I bore with philosophic nerve,
Nay, gladly bore; for, here observe,
' T was that which gave to them offence
Did constitute my excellence. -
I see, my Lord, at this you stare:
Yet thus I'll prove it to a hair.As Mind and Body are distinct,
Though long in social union linked,
And as the only power they boast
Is merely at each other's cost;
If both should hold an equal station,
They'd both be kings without a nation:
If, therefore, one would paint the Mind
In partnership with Body joined,
And give to each an equal place,
With each an equal truth and grace,
'T is clear the picture could not fail
To be without or head or tail.
And therefore, as the Mind alone
I chose should fill my graphic throne,
To fix her power beyond dispute,
I trampled Body under foot:
That is, in more prosaic dress,
As I the passions would express,
And as they ne'er could be portrayed
Without the subject Body's aid,
I showed no more of that than merely
Sufficed to represent them clearly: -
As thus, -by simple means and pure
Of light and shadow, and contour.
20
229 
THE TWVO PAINTERS.
But, since what mortals call complexion
Has with the mind no more connection,
Than ethics with a country dance,
I left my coloring all to chance;
Which oft (as I may proudly state)
With Nature warred at such a rate,
As left no mortal hue or stain
Of base, corrupting flesh, to chain
The Soul to earth; but, free as light,
E'en let her soar till out of sight."
Thus spake the champion bold of Mind;
And thus the Colorist rejoined:"In truth, my Lord, I apprehend,
If I by words with him contend,
My case is gone; for he, by gift
Of what is called the gab, can shift
The right for wrong, with such a sleight,
That right seems wrong and wrong the right, -
Nay, by his twisting logic, make
A square the form of circle take.
I therefore, with submission meet,
In justice do your Grace entreat
To let awhile your judgment pause,
That works, not words, may plead our cause.
Let Mercury then to Earth repair,
The works of both survey with care,
And hither bring the best of each,
And save us further waste of speech."
"Such fair demand," the Judge replied,
" Could not with justice be denied.
230 
THE TWVO PAINTERS.
Good Mercury, hence!"  "I fly, my Lord,"
The Courier said.  And, at the word,
High-bounding, wings his airy flight
So swift, his form eludes the sight;
Nor aught is seen his course to mark,
Save when athwart the region dark
His brazen helm is spied afar,
Bright-trailing like a falling star.
And now for minutes ten there stole
A silence deep o'er every soul,When, lo! again before them stands
The Courier's self with empty hands.
"Why, how is this?" exclaimed the twain;
" Where are the pictures, Sir?  Explain!"
"Good Sirs," replied the God of Post,
"I scarce had reached the other coast,
When Charon told me, one he ferried
Informed him they were dead and buried;
Then bade me hither haste and say,
Their ghosts were now upon the way."
In mute amaze the Painters stood.
But soon upon the Stygian flood,
Behold! the spectre-pictures float,
Like rafts, behind the towing boat;
Now reached the shore, in close array,
Like armies drilled in Homer's day,
When marching on to meet the foe,
By bucklers hid from top to toe,
They move along the dusky fields,
A grisly troop of painted shields;
And now, arrived, in order fair,
A gallery huge they hang in air.
231 
THE TIVO PAINTERS.
The ghostly crowvd with gay surprise
Began to rub their stony eyes:
Such pleasant lounge, they all averred,
None saw since he had been interred;
And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth,
Began to weigh the pictures' worth.
But first (as deemed of higher kind)
Examined they the works of Mind.
1" Pray what is this?" demanded one.
"That, Sir, is Phcebus, alias Sun:
A classic work you can't deny;
The car and horses in the sky,
The clouds on which they hold their way,
Proclaim him all the God of Day."
"Nay, learned Sir, his dirty plight
More fit beseems the God of Night.
Besides, I cannot well divine
How mud like this can ever shine."
" Then look at that a little higher."
"I see't is Orpheus, by his lyre.
The beasts that listening stand around,
Do well declare the force of sound:
But why the fiction thus reverse,
And make the power of song a curse?
The ancient Orpheus softened rocks,
Yours changes living things to blocks."
"Well, this you'11 sure acknowledge fine, -
Parnassus' top, with all the Nine.
Ah, there is beauty, soul, and fire,
And all that human wit inspire!"
* The author, having no revenge to gratify, and consequently no pleasure in giving pain, has purposely excluded the works of all living Artists
from this Gallery
232 
THE TWO  PAINTERS.
"Good Sir, you're right; for, being stone,
They're each to blunted wits a hone."
"And what is that? " inquired another.
"That, Sir, is Cupid and his Mother."
"What, Venus? Sure it cannot be:
That skin begrimed ne'er felt the sea;
That Cupid, too, ne'er knew the sky,
For lead, I'm sure, could never fly."
"I'11 hear no more," the Painter said,
"Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!"
With secret triumph now elate,
His grinning Rival'gan to prate.
"0, fie! my friends; upon my word,
You're too severe; he should be heard,For Mind can ne'er to glory reach
Without the usual aid of speech.
If thus, howe'er, you seal his doom,
What hope have I unknown to Rome?
But since the truth be your dominion,
I beg to hear your just opinion.
This picture, then, which some have thought
By far the best I ever wrought,Observe it well with critic ken;
'T is Daniel in the Lions' Den."
"'T is flesh itself!" exclaimed a critic;
"But why make Daniel paralytic?
His limbs and features are distorted,
And then his legs are badly sorted.
'T is true, a miracle you've hit,
But not as told in Holy Writ;
For there the miracle was braving,
With bones unbroke, the Lions' craving;
20*
233 
THE TwVO PAINTERS.
But yours, (what ne'er could man befall,)
That he should live with none at all."
" And pray," inquired another spectre,
"What Mufti's that at pious lecture?"
" That's Socrates, condemned to die;
He next, in sable, standing by,
Is Galen,* come to save his friend,
If possible, from such an end;
The other figures, grouped around,
His Scholars, wrapt in woe profound."
" And am I like to this portrayed?"
Exclaimed the Sage's smiling Shade.
" Good Sir, I never knew before
That I a Turkish turban wore,
Or mantle hemmed with golden stitches,
Much less a pair of satin breeches;
But, as for him in sable clad,
Though wondrous kind,'t was rather mad
To visit one like me forlorn,
So long before himself was born."
" And what's the next?" inquired a third;
"A jolly blade, upon my word!"
"''T is Alexander, Philip's son,
Lamenting o'er his battles won;
That, now his mighty toils are o'er,
The world has naught to conquer more."
At which, forth stalking from the host,
Before them stood the Hero's Ghost.
" Was that," said he, " my earthly form,
The Genius of the battle-storm?
To those who are conversant with the  works of the Old Masters, this
piece of anachronismn will hardly apllpear exaggerated.
234 
THE TWO PAINTERS.
From top to toe the figure's Dutch!
Alas, my friend, had I been such,
Had I that fat and meaty skull,
Those bloated cheeks, and eyes so dull,
That drivelling mouth, and bottle nose,
Those shambling legs, and gouty toes,Thus formed to snore throughout the day,
And eat and drink the night away,I ne'er had felt the feverish flame
That caused my bloody thirst for fame,
Nor madly claimed immortal birth,
Because the vilest brute on earth:
And, O! I'd not been doomed to hear,
Still whizzing in my blistered ear,
The curses deep, in damning peals,
That rose from'neath my chariot-wheels,
When I along the embattled plain
With furious triumph crushed the slain:
I should not thus be doomed to see,
In every shape of agony,
The victims of my cruel wrath,
For ever dying, strew my path;
The grinding teeth, the lips awry,
The inflated nose, the starting eye,
The mangled bodies writhing round,
Like serpents, on the bloody ground;
I should not thus for ever seem
A charnel-house, and scent the steam
Of black, fermenting, putrid gore,
Rank oozing through each burning pore;
Behold, as on a dungeon wall,
The worms upon my body crawl,
235 
TTIlE TWO  PAINTERS.
The which, if I would brush away,
Around my clammy fingers play,
And, twiining fast with many a coil,
In loathsome sport my labor foil."
" Enough! " the frighted Painter cried,
And hung his head in fallen pride.
Not so the other. He, of stuff
More stubborn, ne'er would cry, Enough;
But, like a soundly cudgelled oak,
More sturdy grew at every stroke.
And thus again his ready tongue
With fluent logic would have rung:" My Lord, I'll prove, or I'm a liar"
Whom interrupting then with ire,
Thus checked the Judge: - "0, proud, yet mean!
And canst thou hope from me to screen
Thy foolish heart, and o'er it spread
A veil to cheat the omniscient dead?
And canst thou hope, as once on Earth,
Applause to gain by specious worth,
Like those that still by sneer and taunt
Would prove pernicious what they want. -
And claim the mastership of Art,
Because thou only know'st a part?
"Hadst thou from Nature, not the Schools
Distorted by pedantic rules,
With patience wrought, such logic vain
Had ne'er perverted thus thy brain:
For genius never gave delight
By means of' what offends the sight:
236 
TIIL T\VO PAINTERS.
Nor hadst thou deemed, with folly mad,
Thou couldst to Nature's beauties add,
By taking from her thatlt which gives
The best assurance that sihe lives;
By imperfection give attraction,
And multiply them by subtraction.
"Did Raffael thus, whose honored ghost
Is now Elysium's fairest boast?
Far different he. Though weak and lame
In parts that gave to others fame,
Yet sought not he by such defect
To swindle praise for wise neglect
Of v ~:(ar charms, that only blind
The dazzled eye to those of Mind.
By Heaven impressed with genius' seal,
An eye to see, and heart to feel,
His soul through boundless Nature roved,
And seeing felt, and feeling loved.
But weak the power of mind at will
To give the hand the painter's skill;
For mortal works, maturing slow,
From patient care and labor flow:
And, hence restrained, his youthful hand
Obeyed a master's dull command;
But soon with health his sickly style
From Leonardo learned to smile;
And now from Buonarroti caught
A nobler Form; and now it sought
Of Color fair the magic spell,
And traced her to the Friar's * cell.
Fra Tartolomneo.
237 
THE TWO  PAINTERS.
No foolish pride, no narrow rule,
Enslaved his soul; from every School,
Whatever fair, whatever grand,
His pencil, like a potent wand,
Transfusing, bade his canvas grace.
Progressive thus, with giant pace,
And energy no toil could tame,
He climbed the rugged mount of Fame:
And soon had reached the summit bold,
When Death, who there delights to hold
His fatal watch, with envious blow
Quick hurled him to the shades below."
Thus checked the Judge the champion vain
Of Classic Form; and thus, in strain
By anger half and pity moved,
The ghostly Colorist reproved: —
"And what didst thou aspire to gain,
Who daredst the will of Jove arraign,
That bounded thus within a span
The little life of little man,
With shallow art deriving thence
Excuses for thy indolence?
'T is cant and hypocritic stuff!
The life of man is long enough:
For, did he but the half improve,
He would not quarrel thus with Jove.
"But most I marvel (if it be
That aught may wondrous seem to me)
That Jove's high gift, your noble Art,
Bestowed to raise mnan's grovelling heart,
238 
THE  TWO  PAINTERS.
Refining with ethereal ray
Each gross and selfish thought away,
Should pander turn of paltry pelf,
Imprisoning each within himself;
Or, like a gorgeous serpent, be
Your splendid source of misery,
And, crushing with his burnished folds,
Still narrower make your narrow souls.
"But words can ne'er reform produce
In Ignorance and Pride obtuse.
Then know, ye vain and foolish pair!
Your doom is fixed a yoke to bear
Like beasts on Earth; and, thus in tether,
Five centuries to paint together.
If thus, by mutual labors joined,
Your jarring souls should be combined,
The faults of each the other mending,
The powers of both harmonious blending,
Great Jove, perhaps, in gracious vein,
May send your souls on Earth again;
Yet there One only Painter be;
For thus the eternal Fates decree:
' One leg alone shall never run,
Nor two Half-Painters make but One."'
239 
240
ECCENTRICITY.
"Projecere animas." - VIRG.
ALAS, my friend! what hope have I of fame,
Who am, as Nature made me, still the same?
And thou, poor suitor to a bankrupt Muse,
How mad thy toil, how arrogant thy views!
What though endued with Genius' power to move
The magic chords of sympathy and love,
The painter's eye, the poet's fervid heart,
The tongue of eloquence, the vital art
Of bold Prometheus, kindling at command
With breathing life the labors of his hand;
Yet shall the world thy daring, high pretence
With scorn deride, for thou-  hast common sense.
But dost thou, reckless of stern honor's laws,
Intemperate hunger for the world's applause?
Bid Nature hence; her fresh, embowering woods,
Her lawns and fields, and rocks, and rushing floods,
And limpid lakes, and health-exhaling soil,
Elastic gales, and all the glorious toil
Of'Heaven's own hand, with courtly shame discard,
And Fame shall triumph in her city bard. 
ECCENTRICITY.
Then, pent secure in some commodious lane,
Where stagnant Darkness holds her morbid reign,
Perchance snug-roosted o'er some brazier's den,
Or stall of nymphs, by courtesy not men,
Whose gentle trade to skin the living eel,
The while they curse it that it dares to feel; *
Whilst ribald jokes and repartees proclaim
Their happy triumph o'er the sense of shame;
The city Muse invoke, that imp of mind
By smoke engendered on an eastern wind;
Then, half awake, thy patent-thinking pen
The paper give, and blot the souls of men.
The time has been when Nature's simple face
Perennial youth possessed, and winning grace;
But who shall dare, in this refining age,
With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?
What polished lover, unappalled by sneers,
Dare court a beldame of six thousand years,
When every clown, witlh microscopic eyes,
The gaping furrows on her forehead spies? -
"Good Sir, your pardoni.  In her naked state,
Her withered form we cannot choose but hate;
But fashion's art the waste of time repairs,
Each wrinkle fills, and dyes her silver hairs;
Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms glow;
rWe cannot choose but love what's comme ilfaut."
Alas, poor Cowper! could thy chastened eye
(Awhile forgetful of thy joys on high)
- See Boswell's Life of Johnson.
21
241 
ECCENTRICIT'Y,
Revisit earth, what indignation strange
Would sting thee to behold the courtly change!
Here "velvet" lawns, there "plushy" woods that lave
Their " silken " tresses in the "glassy " wave;
Here  "'broidered "' meads, there flowery  "carpets"
spread,
And " downy " banks to "pillow " Nature's head.
How wouldst thou start to find thy native soil,
Like birthday belle, by gross mechanic toil
Tricked out to charm with meretricious air,
As though all France and Manchester were there!
But this were luxury, were bliss refined,
To view the altered region of the mind;
Where whim and mystery, like wizards, rule,
And conjure wisdom from the seeming fool, Where learned heads, like old cremonas, boast
Their merit soundest that are cracked the most, While Genius' self, infected with the joke,
His person decks with Folly's motley cloak.
Behold, loud-rattling like a thousand drums,
Eccentric Hal, the child of Nature, comes!
Of Nature once,- but now he acts a part,
And Hal is now the full-grown boy of art.
In youth's pure spring his high, impetuous soul
Nor custom owlled, nor fashion's vile control.
By Truth impelled where beckoning Nature led,
Through life he moved with firm, elastic tread;
But soon the world, with wonder-teeming eyes,
His manners mark, and goggle with surprise.
" He's wondrous strange!" exclaims each gaping clod;
" A wondrous geniuls, for he's wondrous odd!"
242 
ECCENTRICITY.
Where'er he goes, there goes before his - fame,
And courts and taverns echo round his name;
Till, fairly knocked by admiration down,
The petted monster cracks his wondrous crown.
No longer now to simple Nature true,
He studies only to be oddly new;
WVhate'er he does, whate'er he deigns to say,
Must all be said and done the oddest way;
Nay, e'en in dress eccentric as in thought,
His wardrobe seems by Lapland witches wrought,
Himself by goblins in a whirlwind dressed,
With rags of clouds from Hecla's stormy crest.
"Has truth no charms?"  When first beheld, I grant,
But, wanting novelty, has every want:
For pleasure's thrill the sickly palate flies,
Save haply pungent with a rare surprise.
The humble toad that leaps her nightly round,
The harmless tenant of the garden ground,
Is loathed, abhorred, nay, all the reptile race
Together joined were never half so base;
Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent,
Through ages doomed to one tremendous Lent,
Surviving still, as if in Nature's spite,
Without or nourishment, or air, or light,
What raptures then the astonished gazer seize!
What lovely creature like a toad can please!
Hence many an oaf, by Nature doomed to shine
The unknown father of an unknown line,
If haply shipwrecked on some desert shore
Of Folly's seas, by man untrod before,
11)113 
ECCENTRICITY.
Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind
Yields naught but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind,
With loud applause the wondering world shall hail,
And Fame embalm him in the marvellous tale.
With chest erect, and bright, uplifted eye,
On tiptoe raised, like one prepared to fly,
Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope
Eccentric soars to catch the hangman's rope.
In order ranged, with date of place and tinme,
Each owner's name, his parentage and crime,
High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame,
Unnumbered halters gibbet him to fame.
Who next appears thus stalking by his side?
Why that is one who'd sooner die than - ride!
No inch of ground can maps unheard of show
Untraced by him, unknown to every toe;
As if intent this punning age to suit,
The globe's circumference measuring by the fool-.
Nor less renowned whom stars inveterate doom
To smiles eternal, or eternal gloom;
For what's a character save one confined
To some unchanging sameness of the mind,To some strange, fixed monotony of mien,
Or dress for ever brown, for ever green?
A sample comes. Observe his sombre face,
Twin-born with Death, without his brother's grace!
No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows,
Whose only joy to tell of others' woes.
2-114 
ECCENTRICITY.
A fractured limb, a conflagrating fire,
A name or fortune lost, his tongue inspire:
From house to house where'er misfortunes press,
Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress;
In every ear with dismal  boding moans,A walking register of sighs and groans!
High towering next, as he'd eclipse the moon,
With pride upblown, behold yon live balloon.
All trades above, all sciences and arts,
To fame he climbs through very scorn of parts;
With solemn emptiness distends his state,
And, great in nothing, soars above the great;
Nay, stranger still, through apathy of blood,
By candor numbered with the chaste and good,
With wife, and child, domestic, stranger, friend,
Alike he lives, as though his being's end
Were o'er his house like formal guest to roam,
And walk abroad to leave himself at home.
"But who is he, that sweet, obliging youth?"
He looks the picture of ingenuous truth.
0, that's his antipode, of courteous race,
The man of bows and ever-smiling face.
Why Nature made him, or for what designed,
Never he knew, nor ever sought to find,
Till cunning came, blest harbinger of ease!
And kindly whispered, " Thou wert born to please."
Roused by the news, behold him now expand,
Like beaten gold, and glitter o'er the land.
Well stored with nods and sly, approving winks,
Now first with this and now with that he thinks;
21 *
245 
ECCENTRICITY.
Howe'er opposing, still assents to each,
And claps a dovetail to each booby's speech.
At random thus for all, for none he lives,
Profusely lavish though he nothing gives;
The world he roves as living but to show
A friendless man without a single foe;
From bad to good, to bad from good to run,
And find a character by seeking none.
Who covets fame should ne'er be over nice, -
Some slight distortion pays the market price.
If haply lamed by some propitious chance,
Instruct in attitude, or teach to dance;
Be still extravagant in deed, or word;
If new, enough, - no matter how absurd.
"Then what is Genius?"  Nay, if rightly used,
Some gift of Nature happily abused.
Nor wrongly deem, by this eccentric rule,
That Nature favors whom she makes a fool.
Her scorn and favor we alike despise;
Not Nature's follies, but our own, we prize.
"Or what is wit?"  A meteor bright and rare,
That comes and goes we know not whence or where;
A brilliant nothing out of something wrought,
A mental vacuum by condensing thought.
Behold Tortoso. There's a man of wit;
To all things fitted, though for nothing fit;
Scourge of the world, yet crouching for a name,
And honor bartering for the breath of fame;
246 
ECCENTRICITY.,
Born to command, and yet an arrant slave;
Through too much honesty a seeming knave;
At all things grasping, though on nothing bent,
And ease pursuing e'en with discontent;
Through nature, arts, and sciences he flies,
And gathers truth to manufacture lies.
Nor only Wits for tortured talents claim
Of sovereign mobs the glorious meed of fame;
E'en Sages too, of grave and reverend air,
Ycleped PhilosophIers, must have their share;
Who, deeper still in conjuration skilled,
A mighIty something out of nothing build.
"Then wherefore read?  Why cram  the youthful
head
With all the learned lumber of the dead,
Who, seeking wisdom, followed Nature's laws,
Nor dared effects admit without a cause?"
Why? - Ask the sophist of our modern school;
To foil the workman we must know the tool;
And, that possessed, how swiftly is defaced
The noblest, rarest monument of taste!
So neatly, too, the mutilations stand
Like native errors of the artist's hand;
Nay, what is more, the very tool betrayed
To seem the product of the work it made.
"0 monstrous slander on the human race!"
Then read conviction in Ortuno's case.
By Nature fashioned in her happiest mood,
With learning, fancy, keenest wMit endued,
247 
ECCENTRICITY.
To what high purpose, what exalted end,
These lofty gifts did great Ortuno bend?
With grateful triumph did Ortuno raise
The mighty trophies to their Author's praise,
With skill deducing from the harmonious -whole
Immortal proofs of One Creative Soul?
Ah, no! infatuate with the dazzling light,
In them he saw their own creative might;
Nay, madly deemed, if such their wondrous skill,
The phantom of a God't was theirs to will.
But granting that he is, he bids you show
By what you prove it, or by what you know.
O reasoning worm! who questions thus of Him
That lives in all, and moves in very limb;
Must with himself in very strangeness dwell;
Has never heard the voice of Conscience tell
Of right and wrong, and speak in louder tone
Than tropic thunder of that Holy One,
Whose pure, eternal justice shall requite
The deed of wrong, and justify the right.
Can such blaspheme and breathe the vital air?
Let mad philosophy their names declare.
Yet some there are, less daring in their aim,
With humbler cunning butcher sense for fame;
Who, doubting still, with many a fearful pause,
The existence grant of one almighty cause;
But, halting there, in bolder tone deny
The life hereafter, when the man shall die,
Nor mark the monstrous folly of their gain,
That God all-wise should fashion them in vain
248 
ECCENTRICITY.
'T were labor lost in this material age,
When schoolboys trample on the Inspired Page, -
When cobblers prove by syllogistic pun
The sole they mend and that of man are one,'T were waste of time to check the Muse's speed,
For all the whys and wherefores of their creed;
To show how proved the juices are the same
That feed the body, and the mental frame.
But who, half skeptic, half afraid of wrong,
Shall walk our streets, and mark the passing throng, -
The brawny oaf in mould Herculean cast,
The pigmy statesman trembling in his blast,
The cumbrous citizen of portly paunch,
Unwont to soar beyond the smoking haunch,
The meagre bard behind the moving tun,
His shadow seeming lengthened by the sun,Who forms scarce visible shall thus descry,
Like flitting clouds athwart the mental sky,
From giant bodies then bare gleams of mind,
Like mountain watch-lights blinking to the wind,Nor blush to find his unperverted eye
Flash on his heart, and give his tongue the lie?
'T is passing strange! yet, born as if to show
Man to himself his most malignant foe,
There are (so desperate is the madness grown)
Who'd rather live a lie than live unknown;
Whose very tongues, with force of Holy Writ,
Their doctrines damn with self-recoiling wit.
Behold yon dwarf, of visage pale and wan,A sketeh of life, a remnant of a man!
249 
ECCENTRICITY.
Whose livid lips, as nlow he moulds a grin,
Like charnel-doors disclose the waste within;
Whose stiffened joints within their sockets grind,
Like gibbets creaking to the passing wind;
Whose shrivelled skin with such adhesion clings
His bones around in hard, compacted rings,
If veins there were, no blood beneath could force,
Unless by miracle, its trickling course;Yet even he within that sapless frame
A mind sustained that climbed the steeps of fame.
Such is the form by mystic Heaven designed
The earthly mansion of the rarest mind.
But mark his gratitude. This soul sublime,
This soul lord paramount o'er space and time,
This soul of fire, with impious madness sought
Itself to prove of mortal matter wrought;
Nay, bred, engendered, on the grub-worm plan,
From that vile clay which made his outward man,
That shadowy form which, darkening into birth,
But seemed a sign to mark a soul on earth.
But who shall cast an introverted eye
Upon himself, that will not there descry
A conscious life that shall, nor cannot die?
E'en at our birth, when first the infant mould
Gives it a mansion and an earthly hold,
The exulting Spirit feels the heavenly fire
That lights her tenement will ne'er expire;
And when, in after years, disease and age,
Our fellow-bodies sweeping from life's stage,
Obtrude the thought of death, e'en then we seem,
As in the revelation of a dream,
2150 
ECCENTRICITY.
To hear a voice, more audible than speech,
Warn of a part which death can never reach.
Survey the tribes of savage men that roam
Like wandering herds, each wilderness their home;Nay, even there the immortal spirit stands
Firm on the verge of death, and looks to brighter lands.
Shall human wisdom, then, with beetle sight,
Because obstructed in its blundering flight,
Despise the deep conviction of our birth,
And limit life to this degraded earth?
0, far from me be that insatiate pride,
Which, turning on itself, drinks up the tide
Of natural light, till one eternal gloom,
Like walls of adamant, inclose the tomb.
Tremendous thought! that this transcendent Power,
Felled with the body in one fatal hour,
With all its faculties, should pass like air
For ages without end as though it never were!
Say, whence, obedient to their destined end,
The various tribes of living nature tend?
Why beast, and bird, and all the countless race
Of earth and waters, each his proper place
Instinctive knows, and through the endless chain
Of being moves in one harmonious strain;
While man alone, with strange perversion, draws
Rebellious fame from Nature's broken laws?
Methinks I hear, in that still voice that stole,
On Horeb's mount, o'er rapt Elijah's soul,
251 
ECCENTRICITY,
With stern reproof indignant Heaven reply:
"'T is overweening Pride, that blinds the eye
Of reasoning man, and o'er his darkened life
Confusion spreads, and misery and strife."
With wonder filled and self-reflecting praise,
The slave of Pride his mighty powers surveys;
On Reason's sun (by bounteous Nature given,
To guide the soul upon her way to heaven)
Adoring gazes, till the dazzling light
To darkness sears his vain, presumptuous sight;
Then bold, though blind, through error's night he runs,
In fancy lighted by a thousand suns;
For bloody laurels now the warrior plays,
Now libels nature for the poet's bays,
Now darkness drinks from metaphysic springs,
Or follows fate on astrologic wings:
'Mid toils at length the world's loud wonder won,
With Persian piety, to Reason's sun
Profound he bows, and, idolist of fame,
Forgets the God who lighted first the flame.
All-potent Reason! what thy wondrous light?
A shooting star athwart a polar night;
A bubble's gleam amid the boundless main;
A sparkling sand on waste Arabia's plain;E'en such, vain Power, thy limited control,
E'en such thou art to man's mysterious soul!
Presumptuous man! wouldst thou aspiring reach
True'wisdom's height, let conscious weakness teach
252 
ECCENTRICITY.
Thy feeble soul her poor, dependent state,
Nor madly war with Nature to be great.
Come then, Humility, thou surest guide!
On earth again with frenzied men reside;
Tear the dark film of vanity and lies,
And inward turn their renovated eyes;
In aspect true let each himself behold,
By self deformed in pride's portentous mould.
And if thy voice, on Bethlehem's holy plain
Once heard, can reach their flinty hearts again,
Teach them, as fearful of a serpent's gaze,
Teach them to shun the gloating eye of praise;
The slightest swervings from their nature's plan
Make them a lie, and poison all the man,
Till black corruption spread the soul throughout,
Whence thick and fierce, like fabled mandrakes, sprout
The seeds of vice with more than tropic force,
Exhausting in the growth their very vital source.
Nor wrongly deem the cynic Muse aspires
With monkish tears to quench our nobler fires.
Let honest pride our humble hearts inflame,
First to deserve, ere yet we look to, fame;
Not fame miscalled, the mob's applauding stare,This monsters have, proportioned as they're rare;
But that sweet praise, the tribute of the good,
For wisdom gained, through love of truth pursued.
Coeval with our birth, this pure desire
VWas given to lift our grovelling natures higher,
Till that high praise, by genuine merit wrung
For men's slow justice, shall employ the tongue
22
253 
ECCENTRICITY.
Of yon Supernal Court, from whom may flow
Or bliss eternal or eternal woe.
And, since in all this hope exalting lives,
Let virtuous toil improve what Nature gives:
Each in his sphere some glorious palm may gain,
For Heaven all-wise created naught in vain.
O task sublime, to till the human soil
Where fruits immortal crown the laborer's toil!
Where deathless flowers, in everlasting bloom,
May gales from heaven with odorous sweets perfume,
Whose fragrance still, when man's last work is done,
And hoary Time his final course has run,
Through ages back, with freshening power shall last,
Mark his long track, and linger where he passed!
25,1 
THE PAINT-KING.
FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young,
No damsel could with her compare;
Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,
And bards without number in ecstasies sung
The beauties of Ellen the fair.
Yet cold was the maid; and though legions advanced,
All drilled by Ovidean art,
And languished and ogled, protested and danced,
Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced
From the hard, polished ice of her heart.
Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;
Like a sailor she seemed on a desolate shore,
With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar
Of breakers high-dashing around.
255 
THE PAINT-KING.
From object to object still, still would she veer,
Though nothing, alas! could she find;
Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear,
Yet doomed, like the moon, with no being to cheer
The bright barren waste of her mind.
But, rather than sit like a statue so still
When the rain made her mansion a pound,
Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill,
And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill,
From the tiles of the roof to the ground.
One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined,
Passed a youth, with a frame in his hand.
The casement she closed, - not the eye of her mind;
For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
Still before her she saw the youth stand.
"Ah, what can he do?" said the languishing maid;
"Ah, what with that frame can he do?"
And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets and prayed,
When the youth passed again, and again he displayed
The frame and a picture to view.
"0 beautiful picture!" the fair Ellen cried,
"I must see thee again or I die."
Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
And after the youth and the picture she hied,
When the youth, looking back, met her eye.
2:56 
THE PAINT-KING.
"Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while,)
" This picture I see you admire:
Then take it, I pray you; perhaps't will beguile
Some moments of sorrow, (nay, pardon my smile,)
Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."
Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise
From the cunning young stripling received.
But she knew not the poison that entered her eyes,
When, sparkling with rapture, they gazed on the
prize; —
Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived!
'T was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined,
And the sculptor he seemed of the stone;
Yet he languished as though for its beauty he pined,
And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.
'T was the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old;
Fair Ellen remembered and sighed:
"Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble so cold,
Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold
And press me this day as thy bride."
She said: when, behold, from the canvas arose
The youth, and he stepped from the frame;
With a furious transport his arms did inclose
The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!
22 *
257 
THE PAINT-KING.
She turned, and beheld on each shoulder a wing.
" O Heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"
From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
As, frowning, he thundered, "I am the PAINT-KING!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"
Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid like a blast;
And he sped through the air like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wandering by him, did fearfully drift
To the right and the left as he passed.
Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;
The air all below him becomes black as night,
And the ground where he treads, as if moved with
affright,
Like the surge of the Caspian bends.
"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knocked
At the gates of a mountainous cave;
The gates open flew, as by magic unlocked,
While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rocked
Like an island of ice on the wave.
"O0, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swooned in his arms;
But the Paint-King, he scoffed at her pain.
"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean  these
alarms?"
She hears not, see sees not, the terrible charms
That wakle her to horror again.
2-S 
THE  PAINT-KING.
She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo;
Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villanous dyes,
Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.
On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied,
Sat the fiend, like the grim Giant Gog,
While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied,
Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried
As it looms through an easterly fog.
And anon, as he puffed the vast volumes, were seen,
In horrid festoons on the wall,
Legs and arms, heads and bodies, emerging between,
Llike the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney
Beane,
By the Devil dressed out for a ball.
"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet.
" Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"
" 0, no! " said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat;
"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;
Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"
Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil-jug he plunged her within.
Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair,
Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,
All covered with oil to the chin.
2c59 
THE PAINT-KING.
On the morn of the eighth on a huge, sable stoile
Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;
With a rock for his muller he crushed every boiie,
But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan;
For life had forsook not the maid.
Now, reaching his palette, with masterly care
Each tint on its surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy-red.
Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,
"Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"
When lo! from a chasm wide-yawnintg there came
A light, tiny chariot of rose-colored flame,
By a team of ten glowworms upborne.
Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright,
Fair Geraldine sat without peer;
Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light,
And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,
And a beam of the moon was her spear.
In an accent that stole on the still, charmed air
Like the first gentle language of Eve,
Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair:"I come at thy call, - but, O Paint-King, beware,
Beware if again you deceive!"
260 
THE PAINT-KING.
"'T is true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart,
Thy portrait I oft have essayed;
Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art
The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;
And my failure with scorn you repaid.
" Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail,"
And he towered with pride as he spoke,
"If again with these magical colors I fail,
The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,
And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.
" But if I succeed, then, O fair Geraldine!
Thy promise with justice I claim,
And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine,
The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine
Shall fill all the earth with my fame."
He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form
On the canvas enchantingly glowed;
His touches,- they flew like the leaves in a storm;
And the pure, pearly white and the carnation warm
Contending in harmniony flowed.
And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem
To the figure of Geraldine fair:
\With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem
Each muscle, each feature; in short, not a gleam
Was lost of her beautiful hair.
261 
TIOE PAINT-KING.
'T was the Fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes
Still a pupil did ruefully lack;
And who shall describe the terrific surprise
That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries
Not a speck on his palette of black!
"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf;
When, casting his eyes to the ground,
He saw the lost pupils of Ellen, with grief,
In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief
Whisk away from his sight with a bound.
"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he fell like a stone;
Then rising the Fairy in ire
With a touch of her finger she loosened her zone,
(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,)
And she swelled to a column of fire.
Her spear now a thunderbolt flashed in the air,
And sulphur the vault filled around:
She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair
High-lifting, she hurled him in speechless despair
Down the depths of the chasm profound.
Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,
"Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;
When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear
Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,
'With grace more than ever divine!
262 
263
MYR TI L LA.
ADDRESSED TO A LADY, WHO LAMENTED THAT SHE HAD NEVER BEEN
IN LOVE.
"Al nuovo giornlo
Pietosa man mni sollev." -- METASTASIO.
" AH me! how sad," Myrtilla cried,
"To waste alone my years!"
While o'er a streamlet's flowery side
She pensive hung, and watched the tide
That dimpled with her tears.
"The world, though oft to merit blind,
Alas! I cannot blame;
For they have oft the knee inclined,
And poured the sigh, - but, like the wind
Of winter, cold it came.
" Ah no! neglect I cannot rue."
Then o'er the limpid stream
She cast her eyes of ether blue;
Her watery eyes looked up to view
Their lovelier parents' beam. 
-IMYRTILLA.
And ever as the sad lament
Would thus her lips divide,
Her lips, like sister roses bent
By passing gales, elastic sent
Their blushes from the tide.
While mournful o'er her pictured face
Did then her glances steal,
She seemed, she thought, a marble Grace,
To enslave with love the human race,
But ne'er that love to feel.
"Ah, what avail those eyes replete
With charms without a name!
Alas! no kindred rays they meet,
To kindle by collision sweet
Of mutual love the flame!
"0,'t is the worst of cruel things,
This solitary state!
Yon bird that trims his purple wings,
As on the bending bough he swings,
Prepares to join his mate.
"The little glowworm sheds her light,    Nor sheds her light in vain, -
That still her tiny lover's sight
Amid the darkness of the night
May trace her o'er the plain.
264 
ATYRTILLA.
"All living nature seems to move
By sympathy divine, -
The sea, the earth, the air above;
As if one universal love
Did all their hearts entwine!
"My heart alone of all my kind
No love can ever warm:
That only can resemblance find
With waste Arabia, where the wind
Ne'er breathes on human form;
"A blank, embodied space, that knows
No changes in its reign,
Save when the fierce tornado throws
Its barren sands, like drifted snows,
In ridges o'er the plain."
Thus plained the maid; and now her eyes
Slow lifting from the tide,
Their liquid orbs with sweet surprise
A youth beheld in ecstasies,
Mute standing by her side.
"Forbear, 0 lovely maid, forbear!"
The youth enamoured cried,
" Nor with Arabia's waste compare
The heart of one so young and fair,
To every charm allied.
23
265 
MIYRTILLA.
"Or, if Arabia,- rather say,
Where some delicious spring
Remurmurs to the leaves that play
'Mid palm and date and floweret gay
On zephyr's frolic wing.
"And now, methinks, I cannot deem
The picture else but true;
For I a wandering traveller seem
O'er life's drear waste, without a gleam
Of hope,- if not in you."
Thus spake the youth; and then his tongue
Such converse sweet distilled,
It seemed, as on his words she hung,
As though a heavenly spirit sung,
And all her soul he filled.
He told her of his cruel fate,
Condemned alone to rove
From infancy to man's estate,
Though courted by the fair and great,
Yet never once to love.
And then from many a poet's page
The blest reverse he proved, -
How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,
From purple youth to sere old age,
Aye loving and beloved!
266 
MYRTILLA.
Here ceased the youth; but still his words
Did o'er her fancy play;
They seemed the matin-song of birds,
Or like the distant low of herds
That welcomes in the day.
The sympathetic chord she feels
Soft thrilling in her soul;
And, as the sweet vibration steals
Through every vein, in tender peals
She seems to hear it roll
Her altered heart, of late so drear,
Then seemed a faery land,
Where Nymphs and rosy Loves appear
On margin green of fountain clear,
And frolic hand in hand.
But who shall paint her crimson blush,
Nor think his hand of stone,
As now the secret with a flush
Did o'er her aching senses rush,    Her heart was not her own!
The happy Lindor, with a look
That every hope confessed,
Her glowing hand exulting took,
And pressed it, as she fearful shook,
In silence to his breast.
267 
MYRTILLA.
Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,
Yet knew not how to chide;
So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,
That, with a smile of pride and shame,
She owned herself his bride.
No longer, then, ye fair, conmplain,
And call the Fates unkind;
The high, the low, the meek, the vain,
Shall each a sympathetic swain,
Another self, shall find.
268 
2C9
TO A LADY,
WHO SPOKE SLIGHTINGLY OF POETS.
0,. CENSURE not the Poet's art,
Nor think it chills the feeling heart
To love the gentle Muses.
Can that which in a stone or flower,
As if by transmigrating power,
His generous soul infuses;
Can that for social joys impair
The heart that like the liberal air
All Nature's self embraces;
That in the cold Norwegian main,
Or'mid the tropic hurricane,
Her varied beauty traces;
That in her meanest work can find
A fitness and a grace combined
In blest, harmonious union;
23 * 
TO A LADVY.
That even with the cricket holds,
As if by sympathy of souls,
Mysterious communion;
Can that with sordid selfishness
His wide-expanded heart impress,
Whose consciousness is loving,
Who, giving life to all he spies,
His joyous being multiplies,
In youthfulness improving?
O Lady, then, fair queen of earth,
Thou loveliest of mortal birth,
Spurn not thy truest lover;
Nor censure him whose keener sense
Can feel thy magic influence
Where naught the world discover; -
Whose eye on that bewitching face
Can every source unnumbered trace
Of germinating blisses;
See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave
The lily-fibred film, and leave
It fixed with honeyed kisses;
While some within thy liquid eyes,
Like minnows of a thousand dyes
Through lucid waters glancing,
In busy motion to and fro,
The gems of diamond-beetles sow,
Their lustre thus enhancing;
270 
TO A LADY.
Here some, their little vases filled
With blushes for thy cheek distilled
From roses newly blowing,
Each tiny thirsting pore supply,
And some in quick succession bv
The down of peaches strowing;
There others who from hanging bell
Of cowslip caught the dew that fell
While yet the day was breaking,
And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse
The tincture, - still its glowing hues
Of purple morn partaking;
Here some, that in the petals pressed
Of humid honeysuckles rest,
From nightly fog defended,
Flutter their fragrant wings between,
Like humming-birds that scarce are seen,
They seem with air so blended;
While some, in equal clusters knit,
On either side in circles flit,
Like bees in April swarming,
Their tiny weight each other lend,
And force the yielding cheek to bend,
Thy laughing dimples forming.
Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye
Can only outward charms espy,
Thy form alone adoring.
271 
TO A LADY.
Ah, Lady, no; though fair they be,
Yet he a fairer sight may see,
Thy lovely soul exploring:
And, while from part to part it flies
The gentle Spirit he descries,
Through every line pursuing;
And feels upon his nature shower
That pure, that humanizing power,
Which raises by subduing.
272 
SO N N E T
ON A FALLING GROUP IN THE LAST JUDGMENT OF MICHAEL ANGELO,
IN THE CAPPELLA SISTINA.
How vast, how dread, o'erwhelming, is the thought
Of space interminable! to the soul
A circling weight that crushes into naught
Her mighty faculties! a wondrous whole,
Without or parts, beginning, or an end!
How fearful, then, on desperate wings to send
The fancy e'en amid the waste profound!
Yet, born as if all daring to astound,
Thy giant hand, O Angelo, hath hurled
E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight,
Down the dread void, - fall endless as their fate!
Already now they seem from world to world
For ages thrown; yet doomed, another past,
Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last!
273 
274
S O N N E T
ON THE GROUP OF THE THREE ANGELS BEFORE THE TENT OF ABRA            HAM, BY RAFFAELLE, IN THE VATICAN.
O, NOW I feel as though another sense,
From heaven descending, had informed my soul;
I feel the pleasurable, full control
Of Grace, harmonious, boundless, and intense.
In thee, celestial Group, embodied lives
The subtile mystery, that speaking gives
Itself resolved; the essences combined
Of Motion ceaseless, Unity complete.
Borne like a leaf by some soft eddying wind,
Mine eyes, impelled as by enchantment sweet,
From part to part with circling motion rove,
Yet seem unconscious of the power to move;
From line to line through endless changes run,
O'er countless shapes, yet seem to gaze on One. 
276
S 0 N N E T
ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF EOLUS BY PELLIGRINO TIBALDI, IN THI
INSTITUTE AT BOLOGNA.
FULL well, Tibaldi, did thy kindred mind
The mighty spell of Buonarroti own.
Like one who, reading magic words, receives
The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown,
'T was thine, deciphering Nature's mystic leaves,
To hold strange converse with the viewless wind;
To see the Spirits, in embodied forms,
Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms.
For, lo! obedient to thy bidding, teems
Fierce into shape their stern, relentless Lord:
His form of motion ever-restless seems;
Or, if to rest inclined his turbid soul,
On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word
To subject Winds that sweep the desert pole. 
276
SONNET
ON REMBRANDT; OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE OF JACOB'S DREAM.
As in that twilight, superstitious age
When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind
Seemed fraught with meanings of supernal kind,
When e'en the learned, philosophic sage,
Wont with the stars through boundless space to range,
Listened with reverence to the changeling's tale; -
E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange!
E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail;
That, like the rambling of an idiot's speech,
No image giving of a thing on earth,
Nor thought significant in Reason's reach,
Yet in their random shadowings give birth
To thoughts and things from other worlds that come,
And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb. 
277
SONNET
ON THE LUXEMBOURG GALLERY.
THERE is a charm no vulgar mind can reach,
No critic thwart, no mighty master teach;
A charm how mingled of the good and ill!
Yet still so mingled that the mystic whole
Shall captive hold the struggling gazer's will,
Till vanquished reason own its full control.
And such, O Rubens, thy mysterious art,
The charm that vexes, yet enslaves the heart!
Thy lawless style, from timid systems free,
Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge
Impending hangs; yet, ere the foaming surge
Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste
Back from the shore impels the watery waste.
24 
SONNET
TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND, THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY
FROM one unused in pomp of words to raise
A courtly monument of empty praise,
Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile,
Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile,
Accept, O West, these unaffected lays,
Which genius claims and grateful justice pays.
Still green in age, thy vigorous powers impart
The youthful freshness of a blameless heart:
For thine, unaided by another's pain,
The wiles of envy, or the sordid train
Of selfishness, has been the manly race
Of one who felt the purifying grace
Of honest fame; nor found the effort vain
E'en for itself to love thy soul-ennobling art.
278 
279
THE MAD LOVER
AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.
STAY, gentle stranger, softly tread!
0, trouble not this hallowed heap!
Vile Envy says mly Julia's dead;
But Envy thus will never sleep.
Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray,
Nor press so hard yon withered leaves;
For Julia sleeps beneath this clay, -
Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves!
0, she was purer than the stream
That saw the first-created morn;
Her words were like a sick man's dream
That nerves with health a heart forlorn.
And who their lot would hapless deem,
Those lovely, speaking lips to view,That light between, like rays that beam
Through sister clouds of rosy hue? - 
'THE MAD LOVER,
Yet these were to her fairer soul
But as yon opening clouds on high
To glorious worlds that o'er them roll,
The portals to a brighter sky.
And shall the glui'ton worm defile
This spotless tenement of love,
That like a playful infant's smile
Seemed born of purest light above?
And yet I saw the sable pall
Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground,The earth did on her coffin fall,
I heard the heavy, hollow sound.
Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain
With thoughts of madness brought from hell!
No woe like this of all her train
Hlas Memory in her blackest cell.
'T is all a tale of fiendish art, -
Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so!
I'11 press thy hand upon my heart, -
It chills me like a hand of snow!
Thine eyes are glazed, thy cheeks are pale,
Thy lips are livid, and thy breath
Too truly tells the dreadful tale, -
Thou comest-from the house of deaths
280 
THE MAD LOVER.
0, speak, beloved! lest I rave;
The fatal truth I'll bravely meet,
And I will follow to the grave,
And wrap me in thy winding-sheet.
24*
281 
282
FIRST LOVE.
A BALLAD.*
AH me! how hard the task to bear,
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear
That mourns a nameless woe.
If by the side of Lucy's wheel
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.
Or when on harvest holiday
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong.
* This and the two following ballads were written at a very early age,
and have already appeared in some of the periodical works of their day. 
FIRST LOVE.
If I attempt the pipe to play,
And catch my Lucy's eye,
The trembling music dies away,
And melts into a sigh.
Where'er I go, where'er I turn,
If Lucy there be found,
I seem to shiver, yet I burn,    My head goes swimming round.
I cannot bear to see her smile,
Unless she smile on me;
And if she frown, I sigh the while,
But know not whence it be.
Ah, what have I to Lucy done
To cause me so much stir?
From rising to the setting sun
I sigh and think of her.
In vain I strive to join the throng
In social mirth and ease;
Now lonely woods I stray among,
For only woods can please.
Ah me! this restless heart I fear
Will never be at rest,
Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
Her image from my breast.
283 
284
THE COMPLAINT.
4 O, HAD I Colin's winning ease,"
Said Lindor with a sigh,
" So carelessly ordained to please.
I'd every care defy.
"If Colin but for Daphne's hair
A simple garland weave,
He gives it with so sweet an air
He seems a crown to give.
" But, though I cull the fairest flower
That decks the breast of spring,
And posies from the woodland bower
For Daphne's bosom bring,
" When I attempt to give the fair,
With many a speech in store,
My half-formed words dissolve in air,
I blush, and dare no more. 
THE COMIPLAINT.
"And shall I, then, expect a smile
From Daphne on my love,
When every word and look the while
My clownish weakness prove?
"Oft at the close of summer day,
When Daphne wandered by,
I've left my little flock astray,
And followed with a sigh.
"Yet, fearing to approach too near,
I lingered far behind;
Anid, lest my step should reach her ear,
I shook at every vwind.
"How happy, then, must Colin be,
Who never knew this fear, -
Whose sweet address at liberty
Commands the fair one's ear!
"A smile, a tear, a word, a sigh,
Stand ready at his call;
In me unknown they live and die,
Who have and feel them all."
Ah, simple swain, how little knows
The love-sick mind to scan
Those gifts which real love bestows
To mark the favored man!
28;5 
THE COMPLAINT.
Secure, let fluent parrots feign
The music of the dove;
'T is only in the eye may reign
The eloquence of love.
286 
287
WILL, THE MANIAC.
A BALLAD.
HARK! what wild sound is on the breeze?
'T is Will, at evening fall
Who sings to yonder waving trees,
That shade his prison-wall.
Poor Will was once the gayest swain
At village dance was seen;
No freer heart of wicked stain
E'er tripped the moonlight green.
His flock was all his humble pride,
A finer ne'er was shorn;
And only when a lambkin died
Had Will a cause to mourn.
But now poor William's brain is turned,
He knows no more his flock;
For when I asked "if them he mourned,"
He mocked the village cock. 
NVILL, THE MIANIAC.
No, William does not mourn his fold,
Though tenantless and drear;
Some say, a love he never told
Did crush his heart with fear.
And she,'t is said, for whom he pined
Was heiress of the land,
A lovely lady, pure of mind,
Of open heart and hand.
And others tell, as how he strove
To win the noble fair,
Who, scornful, jeered his simple love,
And left him to despair.
Will wandered then amid the rocks
Through all the livelong day,
And oft would creep where bursting shocks
Had rent the earth away.
He loved to delve the darksome dell,
Where never pierced a ray)
There to the wailing night-bird tell,
"How love was turned to clay."
And oft upon yon craggy mount,
Where threatening cliffs hang high,
Have I observed him stop to count
With fixless stare the sky;
288 
WILL, THE MANIAC.
Then to himself; in murmurs low,
Repeating, as hle wound
Along the mountain's woody brow,
Till lost was every sound.
But soon he went so wild astray,
His kindred ached to see;
And now, secluded from the day,
in yonder cell is he.
289
25 
290
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.*
ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our Fathers' native soil!
0, stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!
For thou with magic might
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o'er!
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattlfied steep,
Shall hail the guest sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
* Written in America, in the year 1810, and in 1817 inserted by Coleridge in the first edition of his'- Sibylline Leaves," with the following
note: -" This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and
dear friend, I communicate to the reader for its moral, no less than its
poetic spirit." -Editor. 
AM'ERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Then let the world combine,    O'er the main our naval line
Like the mnilky-way shall shine
Bright in fame!
Though ages long have past
Since our Fathers left their horne,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?
While the language free and bold
Which the Bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;    While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;
While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts, -
Between let Ocean roll,
291 
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun:
Yet still from either beach
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
" VWe are One." *
* Note by the Author.- This alludes merely to the moral union of the
two countries. The author would not have it supposed that the tribute of
respect, offered in these stanzas to the land of his ancestors, would be paid
by him, if at the expense of the independence of that which gave him
birth.
292 
293
WRITTEN IN SPRING.*
THis gentle breath which eddies round my cheek,   This respiration of the waking spring,How eloquently sweet it seems to speak
Of hope and joy to every living thing!
To every? - No, it speaks not thus to all
Alike of hope; where misery gnaws the heart,
Her gentle breathings on the senses fall
Like hateful thoughts that make the memory start.
The soul grows selfish where enjoyment flies,
And, loathing, curses what it cannot taste;
This glorious sun, and yon blue, blessed skies,
And this green earth, but tell him of the past;
The frightful past, that other name for death,
That, when recalled, like mocking spectres come,In forms of life, without the living breath,
Like things that speak, yet organless and dumb!
For all that seems in this fair world to live,
To live to man, must catch the quickening ray
* First printed in 1821, in " The Idle Man," No. I, p. 54.
2) * 
WRITTEN IN SPRING.
From man's free soul; and they but freely give
Back unto him the life he gave; for they
Are dead to him who lives not unto them.
But unto him, whose happy soul reposes
In love's sweet dream, how exquisite a gem
Seems every dewdrop on these budding roses!
The humblest plant that sprouts beneath his feet,
The ragged brier, nay, e'en the common grass,
Within that soul a kindred image meet,
As if reflected from an answering glass.
And how they seem by sympathy to lend
Their youthful freshness to each rising thought,
As if the mind had just begun to send
Her faculties abroad, uncurbed, untaught,
From all in nature beautiful and fair
To build her splendid fabrics, while the heart,
Itself deluding, seems by magic rare
To give a substance to each airy part.
Sweet age of first impressions! free and light!
When all the senses, like triumphal ports,
Did let into the soul, by day, by night,
The gorgeous pageants pouring from the courts
Of Nature's vast dominions!- substance then
To the heart's faith; but, now that youth's bright dawn
No longer shines, they flit like shadowy men
That walk on ceilings; for the light is gone!
Yet no,- not gone; for unto him that loves,
The heart is youthful and the faith is strong;
And be it love, or be it youth, that moves
The soul to joy, that light will live as long.
And, 0, how blest this kind reacting law,
That the young heart, with Nature's beauties glowing,
294 
WRITTEN IN SPRING.
Should need, in all it felt, in all it saw,
Another heart to share its overflowing;
While he that feels the pure expansive power
Of joyous love, must pour his feelings forth
On every tree, and herb, and fragrant flower,
And all that grows upon the beauteous earth.
295 
296
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
"To him that hath shall be given."
PART I.
IN days long past, within a lonely wood,
Far from the sound of levelling axe, there stood
A stately Oak, that seemed itself a grove;
And near it grew, entwining shade with shade,
A slender Ash, that with his branches played,
Though oft at noon, all-motionless with love,
'T would lean upon his breast, as't were a gentle maid.
And swift beneath a little brook there ran,
Like some wild creature from the face of man,
So swiftly did it run with smothered voice;
Nor ever was it heard, save only where
Some thwarting pebble sent upon the air
Its tiny moan; or when't was wont rejoice
For wandering root o'erleaped, that checked its scared
career. 
THE ANGEL AND TIlE NIGIHTINGALI,E.
But near these loving trees no other grew;
For, made as if for love, kind Nature threw
Around them far a zone of soft, white sand,
Whose very touch nor plant nor hardy brier
Might e'er abide, so scorching was the fire
That lurked within; yet round this charmed band
Still many a tree and shrub would press, in strange desire.
In sooth it was a rare and lovely sight,
This quiet sylvan moon, so meekly bright;
For such might seem to musing bard the scene;
A spot where Peace, with all her gentle train
Of blending sympathies, might ever reign:
And cold were he on whom its dreamy sheen
Within that dark green wood shall ever fall in vain.
Nor unbeloved was this secluded place
By some of better world and higher race.
And here,'t was said, a heavenly Stranger came,
If haply he might find some heart content
With Nature's will; that would not murmur vent
For boon withheld of beauty or of fame,
Or pine for aught of good to other creatures sent.
Beneath that stately Oak this Stranger kept
His daily watch, and there, too, had he slept,
The Ash had fanned the nightly mist away.
But not, as we, do Spirits need that charm,
That sweet self-losing, that doth oft disarm
The robber grief, bid misery gaunt be gay,
And hate, that cold heart-worm, make powerless to
harm.
297 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
Such self-oblivion would not him beseem,
Of whose least passing thought no youthful dream
Of man's Elysium might an image give.
The Good and Beautiful in him were joined;
Their conscious union made his happy mind;
And, ever as they moved, fair forms would live,
And sweet according sounds through all his being wind.
'T was on a soft June evening, -when the sun
Was just below the wood, and, one by one,
Seemed through the trees to call his wandering rays,  That two young Birds, within a hazel-bush,
This converse held. Said one, a lively Thrush,  "I hardly may deserve this strain of praise;
Such praise, were I a maid, would surely make me blush;
"'T is verily too high,"- and here she ducked
Her pretty head beneath a wing, and clucked
Like to a timid hen,- "too high indeed
From one of lineage so renowned in song;
Though thou, I must confess, dost scarce belong
To that proud race, that rarely deign to heed
Aught but their own vain throats, though ne'er so sweet
or strong."
"Nay," said a gentle voice, whose gurgling tone
None but the Nightingale might ever own,
"My praise is just: nor can I well divine
Why my own native gift should make me blind
To other gifts, though differing wide in kind.
IT were to be poor indeed, if but in mine
My solitary heart may pleasure never find.
298 
THE ANGEL AND THIE NIGHTINGALE.
" And much I marvel if, in truth, there be
A heart so stricken with its own. For me,  O, what a prison-house such narrow doom!
I know not why, - but peace within me dwells
Whene'er I hear yon distant chiming bells,
That have no life; nor comes there aught of gloom,
If heard the runnel's song, within the darkest dells.
"But when from living creatures warm with blood,
When from the countless tribes that haunt this wood,
The morning song of waking joy goes up,
0, how doth leap my pulse, my spirits bound!
The many-mingled notes one only sound
Send to my heart, -as gathered in a drop,From swift, high-soaring larks' to sparrows' on the
ground."
1 I'11 seek no more," the Stranger said in thought;
"In this sweet Bird is all that I have sought."
And then - so willed he in his heavenly mind -
The little, wondering Bird before him flew,
And, fluttering round and round, her wonder grew
To see his wings, now floating on the wind,
And now to air exhaled and mingled with its blue.
And then she marvelled at his waving locks,
That gleamed like sunshine over running brooks.
But, when upon her turned his lustrous eyes,
With silent awe she seemed transfixed to stand,
The while she felt her little breast expand
As if with something that would reach the skies,So full-they  ere of love, so beautifully bland.
299 
THE ANGi'L AND TIlEL NIIlITINGALE,
"Sweet Bird of eve, thy fate is now with me,
And thou my chosen Bird henceforth shalt be;
And I will bless thee. But I may not say
Why thus I choose thee; for a virtue eycd
Too often in the heart may turn to pride,
And then with cold self-love that heart betray
To hard, contracting thoughts, that curse where they
abide."
So spake the guardian Angel; then aloft
His wings, now visible, with heaving soft,
That made mysterious music, fanned the air,
And now the clouds, self-parting, downward sent
A rosy dew, that all the earth besprent;
While, upward as he passed, the stars did wear
A thousand gorgeous hues that from his glory went.
"No, never," said the Bird, " may thought of pride
This glorious Being from my fate divide;
But rather let my heart still humbler be,
That one so high should deign a thought bestow
On one so poor: and this alone to know,
Betide what may, were bliss enough for me.
0, how with such a boon can mix a passion low!"
And now, as one by crowding joys oppressed,
The happy Bird in silence sought her nest,
That lay embosomed in the spreading Oak.
Then, 0, how sweetly closed- like closing flowers
That fold their petals from the nightly showers  Her senses all!  Nor aught their slumber broke
Till came the sun betimes to wake the morning hours.
300 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
PART II.
IN childhood's dawn what bliss it is to live,
To breathe, to move, and to the senses give
Their first fresh travel o'er this glorious Earth!
Yet still of earth we seem, and all we see
But kindred things in other shapes to be;
Nor knows the soul her own distinctive birth
Till some deep inward joy from sense hath made her
free.
And, when in after years she feels the press
From things without, - and not as once to bless,
But forming bondage, while the quick, sore sense
Of freedom still survives, - 0, then, how sweet
Again within one pure heart-joy to greet,
And feel it cause our very bonds dispense
Harmonious thoughts, that make the Soul and world to
meet!
E'en such the charm the Angel's parting word
Left in the bosom of our gentle Bird.
And, though too blest her morn of life had been
To know of clouding grief one fleeting shade,
Yet, 0, in what surpassing light arrayed
Seemed nature now!'T was but the light within
That ever from the heart on all around her played.
26
301 
302      THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
She loved the world so lovely she had made,
And well the grateful world the gift repaid:
Its all was hers; for e'enl the tiny moan
That came so faintly from the brook beneath
Now seemed her breast to heave, and forth to breathe,
And blend in deeper sadness with her own.
No, never round the heart did sadder murmur wreathe.
So time went on, and tributary strains
From hill and dale, and from the breezy plains,
Came pouring all, to lose themselves in her.
Then, lost in ecstasy, how all night long
Her own sweet tribe would sit to hear her song!
Sure ne'er was known such soul-dissolving stir
In soft Italia's courts, her melting race among.
Then went her fame abroad; and from the sea,
And from the far-off isles, wherever tree
Gave shelter to the wing, -from every clime
Endeared to bird, or where the spicy grove
Embalms the gale, or where, the clouds above,
The mountain pine stands sentry over time,
The winged pilgrims came,- for fashion, or for love.
And now the wondering moon would see her light
Flash on the eagle in his downward flight,
Bending his conquered majesty to Song;
And then afar along the snowy host
Of albatross, from off the stormy coast
Of dreary Horn, that veered the clouds among,
Like to a gallant fleet by ocean-tempest tost; 
THE ANGEL AND'rilE NIGHTINGALE.
And then it seemed, in one vast, jagged sheet,
Some rising thunder-cloud's broad breast to meet,
Upheaving heavily above the sea;
But soon the seeming tempest nearer drew;
And then it broke: then how his files to view
The Western chieftain wheeled, - how loftily! -
The mighty wuinged prince, the condor of Peru.
But who describe the ever-growing throng,
Of warring note and plume, that poured along
The tracts of air; or how the welkin rung,
As onward, like the crackling rush of flame,
With flap, and whiz, and whirr of wings, they came?
But hushed again was all; nor wing nor tongue
Stirred in the charmed air that breathed the Bird of
fame.
Nor easy were the task in words to paint
The congregated mass, of forms so quaint,
So wild and fierce and beautiful, that now,
Together mixed, o'erspread the enchanted wood.
Suflice to say, that gentler crowd ne'er stood
Ill princely hall, where all is smile and bow.
In sooth, our polished birds were quite as true and good.
As if of ancient feud each breast bereft,
Or haply each at home its feud had left,
A high-bred sympathy here seemed to wend
Its oily way, and, like a summer stream,
Made all that on it looked more lovely seem.
So all were pleased, as gently each did bend
To see so smooth and bright his mirrored image beam.
303 
TIlE ANGEL AND THE NIGIITINGALE.
Then side by side were seen the tiny form
Of wizard petrel, brewer of the storm,
And giant ostrich from Zahara's plain;
Next the fierce hawk, the robber of the skies,
With gentle dove, of soft, beseeching eyes;
And there, from Belgian fen, the bowing crane,
And dainty Eastern queen, the bird of Paradise.
Yet one there was that seemed with none to pair,
But rather liklie a flower that grew in air,
Which ever and anon, as there it stood,
Would ope its petal to the passing gale,
And then, with fitful gleam, its hues exhale, -
The little humming-bird. So Fortune wooed
Seems to the dreaming Bard; so bright, - so dim, - so
frail!
'T was passing faith, I ween, such sight to see, ---
These strange and motley tribes as one agree;
But one the power that hither bade them hie,  The magic power of Song: though some would fain
The motive deem but hope of fame to gain
For taste refined; -and what beneath the sky
Could harden e'er the heart to self-applauding strain?
Ah, darling self! what transformations come
Aye at thy bidding,- eloquent or dumb,
Or loose or pure, as might beseem the time!
E'en as with man, in purple or in cowl,
So with the feathered race: hence many an owl
Hath doffed his mousing mien for look sublime,
And ruffian vulture smoothed to peace his bloody scowl.
*I-4  
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
PART III.
WHO reaches fame attains that dizzy height
Where seldom foot is sure, or sure the sight:
So runs the adage.   Yet we deem not so.
Who reach it worthily still higher aim,
And, looking upward, steadfast stand the same.
But woe to him, self-pleased, who looks below,
To measure in his pride the fearful way he came!
And what is genius but the gift to see
Supernal Excellence, that aye doth flee
The grasp of man, yet ever still in view
To lead him on, revealing as it flies
Ideal forms, at every step that rise
And crowd his path with beauty ever new?
0, who of self could think with these before his eyes?
No, -rather would he deem a thing of clay
Were thus too blest to dream itself away.
So felt our favored Bird, so passed her days,
Nor e'enl did fame one anxious thought awake;
She prized it never for its own vain sake;
Yet well she loved at that pure fount of praise,
A sympathizing heart, her nature's thirst to slake.
26*
t0 e5 
306      THlE ANGEL AND TILE NIGHITINGALE.
And, truth to say, her gentle spirit rose
And grew in strength from each applauded close.
Ah no! not hers the art, -if such there be,  Herself unmoved, another's breast to sway:
And well she proved that truth will truth repay,
As now to hers, as't were a mighty sea,
A thousand heaving hearts sent up their joyous spray.
Now from his throne of light the Angel bent
Towards Earth his ear, if unaware were blent
In these applauded strains one gush of pride.
And then he smiled, as angels on a child
Are wont to smile; upon her heart he smiled;
For, no, not one small spot was there descried,
Left by the breath of praise, - so treacherously mild.
Well pleased he saw, unsoiled of earthly stain,
His high creative gift still pure remain,
E'en as he gave it from the world above;
For he had marked her in her glory's blaze,
And seen the grateful Bird to heaven upraise
Her glittering eyes, in meek, adoring love:
And well in them he read, "No, never mine the
praise."
"Thus far, sweet Bird, thy life of joy is pure.
'T is now thy lot to suffer and endure;
For now await thee other scenes, to try
And prove thee true. But Love the change ordains,
That Love that never sleeps where Evil reigns,
Bending his hateful rule to purpose high,
Till, sin by sin consumed, the good alone remains." 
THE ANGELI, AND TIlE NIGHTINGALE.
So, musing, spake in thought her Angel friend.
And now again to Earth our course we bend.
But here, alas! in silent pain awhile
Our tale would pause; for sad it were to trace
The fall of greatness in our human race,
But sadder here, where no ambitious guile,
Or thought of glory won by others' loss, had place.
'T were but to tell how troop by troop fell ofl
Of courtly friends, with loud and open scoff,
Or secret sneer, the vice of meaner heart;
The envious these. But most, they knew not why,
Went as they came, or else to roll the eye
As others did, or play the patron's part,
And buy at second hand cheap immortality.
Yet some there were, - a scattered, kindly few,
WVho felt, and loved, the beautiful and true, -
Awhile did linger in the saddened wood,
Where now nor song, nor other sound, was heard,
Save when the night-hawk thro' the darklness whirred.
At length'gan these to pine for present good,
And left, as in the past, our solitary Bird.
But whence the change? Some unknown Power,
't is said,
And strong as dark, had on her fortunes laid
His fatal ban, that daily seemed to drain
The fountain of her song, till all was still;  E'en as the sandy grave of some small rill,
Erewhile a mighty stream, that, towards the main
From mountain torrents sent, would fain its course fulfil.
.)DJ7 
308      THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
And soon her fame a cold tradition proved
Of barren words; if ever tongue it moved
Of some kind friend, yet colder grew the heart
That strove in vain its raptures to recall
As when it warmed beneath the magic thrall
Of living sound;'t was but of some vague art
A vaguer chronicle: and so alike to all.
Alas! to think that from the mind should pass,
E'en as an image from the insensate glass,
This all-subduing mystery of Sound,
That with a breath can from our stubborn clay
Set free the Soul, and launch her forth to stray,
With wandering stars, through yon blue depths pro      found,
Where blessed spirits bask in empyrean day!
'T is even so; the shadow of a dream
Were sooner held, - doth more substantial seem
Than this celestial trance; as if't were given,
Not to the Memory in her hoarding pride,
But to the Soul, that, while to earth allied,
Free of its thraldom, she might know of heaven.
Ah, how may trance like this with erring flesh abide?
But did not she, the gentle Bird, repine,
Her glory gone?  O, no! "It was not mine,"
Her wvise and grateful heart again would say;
"For, were it else,'t were what I might reclaim.
The gift is gone, yet leaves me still the same;
Nay, richer still; and who shall take away
The memory of love, - the love with which it came?" 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thus to herself, in murmurs sweet and low,
Spake the meek-natured Bird, as to and fro
She swung upon the slender, topmost spray
Of that lithe Ash that leaned her nest beside;
While oft the moon, who ne'er did sorrow chide,
In soothing mirth would with her shadow play,
And chase it o'er the sand, or in the forest hide.
The little brook, too, like a lowly friend,
On stilly nights would sometimes humbly send
Its loving plaint: and strange to her it seemed
There came no sadness now in that low wail;
In sooth't was like some gently-moving tale
Of checkered life, where joy through sadness gleamed,
So tempered each by each that neither might prevail.
And wherefore is it so, that grief to grief
No pang should add, but rather bring relief?
Yet so it is. And, 0, how blest to feel
The pure and mystic bond, thus shadowed forth,
That binds us to our kind, - that from our birth
Makes self a prison-house in woe or weal,
And self-sufficing hearts as alien to the Earth!
But chiefly is it blest where virtue dwells,
In kind and gentle hearts; and then it wells,
As't were a fountain, forth on all around,
So that the woods and fields, and all therein
That breathe or bloom, do seem as if akin,
And man to all one common life had bound.
So to our gentle Bird all nature's self had been.
30e9 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
And now did Nature in return bestow
That healing sympathy which never woe,
So it be innocent, may seek in vain.
" 0, never could I in a world so fair,
So full of love, though losing all, despair;
For thou, sweet, loving world, wouldst still remain."
The guardian Angel heard, and blessed again his care.
Still was her humble spirit yet unproved
Of one sore test, which few have stood unmoved,  That stinging pity which a rival's breath
Drops on the wounded heart. But soon it came.
And now began the Thrush to talk of fame;
Then of its loss, -" how bitter, - worse than death,
To one who held so late a more than royal name.
"Alas, my friend, as I recall the time
When to our humble plain that name sublime
Drew from each distant land the wondering throng
That hung upon thy breath, and see thee here,
Alone, despised, in this thy hapless sphere
Of fleeting sway, I fain could wish thy song
No praise had ever won, - or praise at least sincere."
So spake the Thrush: but harmless fell the shaft
As shot in air. Yet when did lack in craft
The spirit of revenge?- if haply, too,
Of that rank, morbid growth which jealous minds
Breed as by instinct, where fit weapon finds
Each self-made wrong, as they together grew?
The smooth, dissembling Thrush had these of many
kinds.
310 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
And soon she changed, and spake in blither mood,
" How pleasant it would be in this lone wood
To hear the converse of some cheerful friends:
And many such she knew, whose chat would cheer
Her dearest friend,- might she invite them here.
And, troth, she would." So straight aloft she bends
Her charitable flight, and soon is lost in air.
Nor strange the enmity in one so late
A seeming friend.'T was but the common hate
Which cold, vain hearts deem solace in their need;
These covet fame as if a thing of will,
By suffrage won; so count it grievous ill
If luckier rivals win the voted meed.
Then what but sweet revenge the craving heart can fill?
Nor aught with such avails a rival's fall, -
Save that he feel it; then, perchance, the gall
May cease to flow.  But, let him brook it well, -
His sad reverse, - as did our gentle Bird,
Without complaining look or fretful word;
Then how afresh this bitter spring of hell,
With hotter-reeking hate, to fiercer flow is stirred!
311 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHIITINGALE.
PART IV.
'T WAS now the hour, -that boding hour of life,
When half-awakened forms of care or strife
Mix with the broken dream,- that shadowy hour,
That like a spectre stands'twixt night and day,
For good or ill, and with his finger gray
Points to the daily doom no mortal power,
For virtue or for yice, can either change or stay.
And never came that hour more winning mild
To mar the fancies of a sleeping child,
Than now it came to our sweet Philomel.
She looked abroad upon the hueless wood,
Then on the sandy plain, where lately stood
That breathing multitude no tongue could tell;
All, all was still and blank, yet all to her was good.
For e'en the stillness seemed as if a part
Of that pure peace that wrapt her gentle heart.
Then how like thoughts, or rather like the cloud
Of formless feeling growing into thought,
The dusky mass, as now she sees it wrought
Slow into shapes, that all around her crowd,
As each their hue of life from day's first herald caught,
3I ) 
THE ANGELI, AND TIlE NICHTINGALE.
The purple rack, that from the eastern sky
Tells to the waking earth that day is nigh.
So mused she undepressed in this lone scene.
But now the sun is up; and soon a train,
Led by the wily Thrush, athwart the plain
Is seen to bend. More gorgeous sight, I ween,
Ne'er made the ethereal bow when bent through morn      ing rain!
The tenants of the wood what this might mean
Quick gathered round to learn; for they had seen
The stranger band afar, like some gray mist,
Loosed from a mountain peak, wreathing its way
Slow up the west; and there anion to play
As with the sun; now, dark, his light resist,
And now, in flickering flakes, fling far each shivered ray.
These were the creatures of that regal clime
Where reigns the imperial Sun; whose soil sublime
Teems through its glowing depths e'en with his light,
There ripening into gems; the while he dyes,
With his own orient hues, the earth and skies,
But most the feathered race,- that so their flight
Might bring his glory back in radiant sacrifice.
"Behold my promised friends; far travellers they, -
E'en from the new-found world, - who fain would pay
Their passing homage to a Bird so famed."
So spake the insidious Thrush: and then around
Her snaky eyes she cast, as one who found
Full sure revenge. " Nay, wherefore shrink, ashamed
Thy meaner form to sho\? for what is form to so?Ii(?"
27
,'   -:3 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
The taunting words came dead upon the ear
Of her they would have smote; the cruel sneer
Touched not a heart so flooded o'er with love,  That pure, supernal love which now gushed forth:'" O blessed creatures! whence your glorious birth?
From what bright region of the world above?
Sure never things so fair first breathed upon the Earthi!"
So deep, yet passionless, that wondrous love
Which Beauty wakes! Pure Instinct from above!
That,'mid the selfish needs, and pains, and fears,
That waste the heart, still fresh dost ever live!
0, who can doubt the promise thou dost give
Of higher destiny, -when toiling years
And pain and sin shall flee, and only love survive?
Scarce had she spoke, when o'er the wondering crowd,
Grazing the dark tree-tops, there stood a cloud
Of dazzling white; while'gainst the deep blue slky
Aloft it rose, as't were some feudal pile,
Where tourneys, held for gentle ladies' smile,
Brought from each polished land her chivalry,
From proud Granada's realm to Britain's gallant isle.
But how unlike to them the radiant throng
That from these cloudy towers poured down their
song,
Breathing of Heaven in each hallowed word!
" All hail! "they sang, -" all hail, sweet Nightingale!
WVho enviest not, who hatest not, all hail!
Who sufferest all, yet lovest all, sweet Bird!
l'hfy glory here begun shall nlever, never fail!"
il 1-1 
THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
But, lo! a sudden darkness, deep as night,
Fell on the thick, hot air. With strange affright
The winged crowd against each other dashed:
All but our gentle Bird; she fearless stood,
And saw the towery cloud, now changed to blood,
Boil as in wrath; and now with fire it flashed,
And forth the thunder rolled, and shook the appalled wood.
Then straight again the quiet sylvan scene
Lay bright and basking in the morning sheen; —
So like a dream had this wild vision fled!
Nor left it aught its fearful truth to note,
Save on the sandy plain one small, dark spot,
Where lay the envious Thrush,-black, stiff, and dead.
Alas, too well deserved her miserable lot!
A cold, brief look was all the useless dead
Had from her parting friends, who forthwith sped
Each to his tropic home. But what befell
Our gentle Bird? Some say her glorious strain
Within that dreadful cloud was heard again,
Deepening the thunder; then afar to swell
'Mid soft, symphonious sounds, like murmurs from the
main.
Howe'er it was, one faith had all possessed,  Her spirit then was numbered with the blest.
And still there are who hold a faith as strong,
Though years have passed, far, far upon the drift
Of ebbless time, that some have now the gift
On a still, starlight night to hear her song,
As't were their blameless hearts still nearer heaven to lift.
315 
316
GLORIA MUNDI.
I LOOKED upon the fields so beautifully green,
I looked upon the hills and vale between,
By shade and sunshine flecked with day and night;
And then I heard the mountain breezes tread
Their wooded sides, like leafy steps that led
Down to the broad and blue bright river's bed,
Dwindling in distance to a line of light.
I gazed, and gazed,- till all my senses caught
The earthy charm. Then waked the fevered thought:
"Drink, O my spirit, of thy cup of bliss,
That ne'er can fail thee in a world like this!"
The charm is gone!  Ah, wherefore was it sent,
To leave this vague and haunting discontent?
I saw it rise, like moving meadow mists,
Before my path, as't were a thing of sight;
E'en as that vapory sea, drinking the light
Fresh from the sun, and showering rubies bright
Where'er it breaks, and purple amethysts;. 
GL-IORIA MIUNDI.
Ay, so it seemed. And then I saw it paled,
Till, like that mimic sea,'t was all exhaled.
Then from her plumbless depth, -to mock the whole, -
Dark in her mystery, came forth the Soul.
And now, - 0, what to me this marvellous Earth
But one vast show of misery and mirth,
In fearful alternation wheeled through space;
Where life is death; where the dead dust doth grow,
And push to air, and drink the dew, and blow
In fragrant flowers, that in their turn re-sow
Their parent soil for some new living race;
Where crumbled sepulchres uprise in thrones,
And gorgeous palaces from dead men's bones;
Where, like the worm, the proudest lips are fed,
The delicate, the dainty, on the dead.
Ah, glorious vanity! Ah, worse than vain
To him who counts its whole possession gain,
Or fondly seeks on Earth one point of rest, -
E'en though it be the imperial house of Fame,
That still'mid falling empires stands the same:
Alas! that house of breath but stays his name,
His restless spirit passes like a guest.
No,   there's a spark that in the dullest lives;
That once to all its light spiritual gives,
Revealing to the soul a void so vast
Not all in time may fill, - not all the past!
And yet there are, who, ever doubting, deem
This inward light the fiction of a dream,
Contemptuous turning to the reasoning day:
27 *
317 
GLORIA MUNDI.
While some with outward things e'en hope to close
The too-obtruding gulf, and buy repose
From ear and eye; or with fantastic shows
In pride of intellect around it play.
Vain toil of unbelief! For who may flee
This fearful warrant of his destiny,
That tracks the royal skeptic to his throne,
Marking his fealty to a world unknown?
0, rather let me, in the void I feel,
With no misgiving seek my lasting weal:
Things blank and imageless in human speech
Have oft a truth imperative in might;
And so that stream, unnamed, unknown of sight,
Unheard of ear, that thence doth day and night
Flow on the Soul; and she doth feel it reach
Her deepest seat of life, and knows her home
Is whence that dim, mysterious stream doth come;
Where all without is peace, all peace within,A home closed only to the rebel, Sin.
Then be not in me quenched that inward ray,
Shed on my spirit when this moving clay
First took the wondrous gift, its life. 0, never
May things of sense beguile me to the brink
Of that dark fount of Pride, of which to drink
Is but to swallow madness, - when to think
Will only be to doubt, till darkness ever
Wall up the soul. But let Humility,
Born of the obedient will, my guide still be
Through this fair world, - though changing, yet how
fair!Till all shall be to me as things that were.
318 
319
THE ATONEMENT.
HOPELESS, alas, of sinful man the lot,
(And who can say of sin, he knows it not?)
If that the thoughts that herald forth the Will
In all their myriad hues may never die!
'T is even so, - with all their good and ill;
For what but they the Ever-conscious I?
Then what compunctious, agonizing grief?
Alas! it gives not to the Soul relief,
That in herself no past can know; that never
From the " eternal Now" one thought can sever.
Ah, no! - no partial suicide may drink
Her least of life whose tenure is to think.
What though, as dead, through threescore years and ten
Some evil thought should sleep? there's no amen.
Fresh as new-born that unremembered thought
Again must wake, - nay, even on the brink
Of some far-distant grave, and there its link
Join to the living chain of self, self-wrought,
I 
THE ATONEMENT.
Which binds the Soul, -her fetter and her life:
Her life the consciousness of fruitless strife.
Ay, such, O Man, thy wretched lot had been
Had He forbade not,- He who knew no sin;
Who to his own, the creatures he had made,
Veiling his empyrean glory, came,
E'en in their form; who, not alone in name,
But palpable in flesh, as man, obeyed
The human law; a veritable man;
A second Adam, who again began
The human will, that, to our nature joined,
The obedience of that will should fulness find
In His, the Infinite, uncraving Mind.
O blessed truth! in my soul's need I feel
In thee alone my ever-during weal.
Yet who may hope to reach, or, reached, abide,
Unquenched of life, this awful mystery;The sweat of blood, the nameless agony,
That wrought the final doom of Sin and Death,
When tumbled from his throne the Prince of Earth;That gave again to Man a sinless birth,
That breathed into his clay a sinless breath?
No, not to me, of mortal mould, is given
To scan the mystery which no eye in heaven,
Attempered to all deepest things, may read.
Yet who shall make me doubt the truth I need?
Then down, my Soul! from the four farthest towers
Of the four warring winds, call in thy powers,
Vagrant o'er earth, with all their reasoning pride,
And here beneath the Cross their madness hide;
320 
THE ATONEMENT.
Down to its kindred dust here cast thy store
Of learned ignorance, to rise no more:
For what may all avail thee, if to thee,
When all of sense like passing air shall flee,If to thy dull, sealed ear, come not the cry,
"Where now, 0  Death, thy sting, 0  Grave, thy vie      tory?" 
322
TO MY SISTER.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE RECOLLECTION OF A LITTLE BIRD, CARVED
BY THE WRITER, WHEN SIX YEARS OLD, OUT OF A GREEN STALK OF
THE INDIAN CORN, AS A PARTING GIFT TO HIS SISTER.
'T is sad to think, of all the crowded Past,
How small a remnant in the memory lives!
A shadowy mass of shapes at random east
Wide on a broken sea the image gives
Of most that we recall.
Yet, haply, not to all
That once have lived doth wayward Memory close
Her book of life, - or, rather, book of love;
For there, as quickened by some breath above,
The pure affections must for aye repose.
And how the rudest toys by childhood wrought,The symbols of its love, - there live and grow
To classic forms, on which no after thought,
No learned toil, can with its skill bestow
A truer touch of Art,
To fix themf in the heart! 
TO MY SISTER.
Then not in vain the gift of little worth,
Thus shadowing to the soul the blessed truth,
That all things pure must needs immortal youth
Hold as their heritage, though born of Earth.
And so, my Sister, doth that childish toy,
Which love for thee had shaped, still with me live;
The life imparted by the loving Boy
Is truer life than now his Art can give:
I see its emerald wing,
Nay, almost hear it sing!
And oft that little vegetable bird
Shall flit between us when we part again;
Its bright, perennial form shall skim the main,
A silent sign, - nor need an uttered word.
323
I, 
,l1,
S 0  SNNT. r.
THE FRENCII REV()LUTION.
THE Earth has had her visitation. Like to this
She hath not known, save when the mounting waters
Made of her orb one universal ocean.
For now the Tree that grew in Paradise,
The deadly Tree that first gave Evil motion,
And sent its poison through Earth's sons and daugh      ters,
Had struck again its root in every land;
And now its fruit was ripe,- about to fall, -
And now a mighty Kingdom raised the hand,
To pluck and eat. Then from his throne stepped
forth
The King of Hell, and stood upon the Earth:
But not, as once, upon the Earth to crawl.
A Nation's congregated form he took,
Till, drunk with sin and blood, Earth to her centre shook. 
SO N NET.
THOUGHT.
WHAT master-voice shall from the dim profound
Of Thought evoke its fearful, mighty Powers?
Those dread enchanters, whose terrific call
May never be gainsaid; whose wondrous thrall
Alone the Infinite, the Uncreate, may bound;
In whose dark presence e'en the Reason cowers,
Lost in their mystery, e'en while her slaves,
Doing her proud behests. Ay, who to sense
Shall bring them forth? -those subtile Powers that
wear
No shape their own, yet to the mind dispense
All shapes that be. Or who in deepest graves
Seal down the crime which they shall not uptear?Those fierce avengers, whom the murdered dead
Shall hear, and follow to the murderer's bed.
28
3 5 
SONNET.
A SMILE.
A SMILE!- Alas, how oft the lips that bear
This floweret of the soul but give to air,
Like flowering graves, the growth of buried care!
Then drear indeed that miserable heart
Where this last human boon is aye denied!
If such there be, it claims in nman no part,
Whose deepest grief has yet a mirthful bride.
For whose so many as the sad man's face?
"is joy, though brief, is yet reprieve from woe;
The waters of his life in darkness flow;
Yet, when the accidents of time displace
The cares that vault their channel, and let in
A gleam of day, with what a joyous din
The stream jets out to catch the sunny grace!
326 
SO  N ET.
ART.
O ART, high gift of Heaven! how oft defamed
When seeming praised! To most a craft that fits,
By dead, prescriptive Rule, the scattered bits
Of gathered knowledge; even so misnamed
By some who would invoke thee; but not so
By him, - the noble Tuscan,' - who gave birth
To forms unseen of man, unknown to Earth,
Now living habitants; he felt the glow
Of thy revealing touch, that brought to view
The invisible Idea; and he knew,
E'en by his inward sense, its form was true:
'T was life to life responding, - highest truth!
So, through Elisha's faith, the Hebrew Youth
Beheld the thin blue air to fiery chariots grow.
* Michael Angelo.
3 /,7 
THE CAI,YCANTHUS.*
INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER.
A LITTLE Conjurer before me stood.
Upon his head he wore a purple hood;
And yet no mystic word or sign
Gave tokens of his wizard power.
He seemed a modest, pretty Flower,
Such as might grace a Poet's line,
Or Painter love in golden locks to wreathe;
Nor seemed he other till my throbbing heart
Felt in his odorous breath his mighty art:
Such breath can only magic breathe!
Scarce was my spirit of the truth aware
When straight it cleaved a thousand miles of air.
I trod, methought, my native land;
Where many a long-forgotten pleasure,
* Written on seeing this favorite flower of my childhood after an interval of many years.
328 
TIlE CALYCANTHUS.
Like many a spendthrift's early treasure,
Lay buried'neath Time's dropping sand;
That ever-dropping sand that never drifts;
Though whirlwinds sweep it, still unmoved that piles
Its grain on grain; still climbing up to miles,    To where not Himalaya lifts.
But Time, with all his load, was then as naught;
The wizard Flower had in my vision wrought
The gift to see through mountain years.
0, then how swift upon me thronging
Came every childish hope and longing,
And causeless smiles, and sunny tears
That fell as if in mockery of grief,
Making their rosy journeys from the eye
In laughing dimples for a while to lie,
Then yield a life as bright as brief!
Again the tiny Artist toiled apart
Beneath that fervid sun, - nor dreamt of Art.
The gay Pomegranate dropped anew,    As if to tempt his mimic powers, -
Her gold and crimson solid flowers,
That soon to fairy vases grew;
The giant Pine looked down upon the boat
Carved from his bark, and seemed in murmurs hoarse,
But gentle as the Child, to bless its course,
When that the little craft should float.
And then how long, how full of time, did seem
A single day in this my dreamed-o'er dream!
28 *
329 
THE CALYCANTHUS.
For all I saw the teeming mind
Had gifted with some wondrous story;
The aged Oak, whose moss-beard hoary
Waved to the fitful evening wind,
Was but the spirit of some Ogre, bound
In other shape, and doomed, for cruel thirst
Of infant's blood, to quit his form accursed,
Then rooted to enchanted ground.
Deep mystery! that the Soul, as not content
To see, to hear, should thus her own moods vent,    Living as't were in all that lives!
E'en as the ever-changing Ocean,
Whether in calmed rest or motion,
Its own transforming image gives;
Sending its terrors into hearts of stoine
Till human wailing swells the dooming roar;
Or, smoothly sleeping near some fearful shore,
Dyes rocks in beauty not their own.
Ah, never will return those loving days,
So loath to part, -those fond, reluctant rays
That seemed to haunt the summer's eve.
And, 0, what charm of magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave,
When by my bed I saw my Mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss?
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this,    E'en now that hallowed kiss I feel.
330 
331
ROSALIE.
" O, POUR upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies!
"No,- never came from aught below
This melody of woe,
That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs,
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light,- if light it be, -
That veils the world I see.
"For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath
Can mould a sadness like to this, -
So like angelic bliss." 
ROSALIIE.
So, at that dreamy hour of day
When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play, -
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden reverie
First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul. 
THE SPANISH MAID.
FIvE we-ary months sweet Inez numbered
From that unfading, bitter day
When last she heard the trumpet bray
That called her Isidore away,That never to her heart has slumbered.
She hears it now, and sees, far bending
Along the mountain's misty side,
His plumed troop, that, waving wide,
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide,
Now bright, now with the dim shore blending.
She hears the cannon's deadly rattle, -
And fancy hurries on to strife,
And hears the drum and screaming fife
Mix with the last sad cry of life.
0, should he, - should he fall in battle!
3.33 
TlTItE  SPANISII  MAAID.
Yet still his name would live in story,
And every gallant bard in Spain
Would fight his battles o'er again.
And would she not for such a strain
Resign himi to his country's glory?
Thus Inez thought, and plucked the flower
That grew upon the very bank
Where first her car bewildered drank
The plighted vow, -where last she sank
In that too bitter parting hour.
But now the sun is westward sinking;
And soon, amid the purple haze
That showers from his slanting rays,
A thousand Loves there meet her gaze,
To change her high, heroic thinking.
Then hope, with all its crowding fancies,
Before her flits and fills the air;
And, decked in Victory's glorious gear,
In vision Isidore is there.
Thten how her heart'mid sadness dances!
Yet little thought she, thus forestalling
The coming joy, that in that hour
The Future, like the colored shower
That seems to arch the ocean o'er,
Was in the living Present falling.
334 
THE SPANISH MAID.
The foe is slain. His sable charger,
All flecked with foam, comes bounding on.
The wild Morena rings anon;
And on its brow the gallant Don
And gallant steed grow larger, larger;
And now he nears the mountain-hollow;
The flowery bank and little lake
Now on his startled vision break, -
And Inez there.- Ie's not awake!
Yet how he'11 love this dream to-morrow!
But no, -he surely is not dreaming.
Another minute makes it clear.
A scream, a rush, a burning tear
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear
That bliss like his is only seeming.
335 
336
THE TUSCAN GIRL.
How pleasant and how sad the turning tide
Of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide
Along the vale of years,
The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,
Too young for woe, though not for tears.
This turning tide is Ursulina's now,
The time is marked upon her brow,
Now every thought and feeling throw
Their shadows on her face;
For so are every thought and feeling joined,
'T were hard to answer whether heart or mind
Of either were the native place.
The things that once she loved are still the same,
Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,
While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light
On e'en the humblest thing that lives. 
''lE TU:SCAN GIRL.
She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by,
And sees it sip the floweret nigh;
Yet not as once, with eager cry,
She grasps the pretty thing;
Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood, -
So poised in air, as if on air it stood,
To show its gold and purple wing.
She hears the bird without a wish to snare,
But rather on the azure air
To mount, and with it wander there
To some untrodden land;
As if it told her, in its happy song,
Of pleasure strange that never can belong
To aught of sight or touch of hand.
Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove,
And outward things around her move
Pure ministers of purer love,
And make the heart her home,
Or to the meaner senses sink a slave,
To do their bidding, though they madly crave
Through hateful scenes of vice to roam.
But, Ursulina, thine the better choice;
Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice;
Thy heart may still in Earth rejoice
And all its beauty love,
But no, not all this fair, enchanting Earth,
With all its spells, can give the rapture birth
That waits thy conscious soul above,
29
337 
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
THE House of Este's bannered pile
Lay glittering in the morning sun,
And many a warlike trophy, won
From swarthy Moor and Arab dun,
Seemed grimly through the air to smile.
And all her knights from Palestine,
As called in jubilant array
From out their tombs, stood, fiercely gay,
In mail and casque, to grace the day
That weds the heir of Este's line.
For all along the banquet-hall
Was pedestalled, as if in life,
The mail that each had worn in strife,
To greet Count Julian's lovely wife,
Fair Isabel of Sinigal.
335 
THE YOUNG TROI;BADOUR.
And many a noble, far and near,
And pilgrims from the Holy Land,
And all renowned for voice or hand
In minstrelsy, in many a land,
From every courtly clime were there.
But one there was, a wandering Boy,
A stranger to his native soil,
Whom penury had doomed to moil,
But grateful, in the Poet's toil,
Who could not pine for other joy.
With heart and head that seemed as one,
His loved guitar his only store,
From court to court he made his tour,
A gentle, happy Troubadour,
Whose quiet spirit envied none.
And with the Bride the Troubadour,
Now honored as her favored page,
Had come his tiny skill to wage
With other bards of riper age
In bridal song and festal lore.
Yet thought not he of rival art;
He sang not for a sounding name;
He loved the Muse because she came
Unasked, and gave him more than fame, -
The pure, sweet music of the heart.
1-1,,'),9 
TItE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
There stood within a lonely dell
A broken fountain, called of yore
The Lover's Fount, where, bending o'er,
A marble Cupid once did pour
The sweetest drops that ever fell.
And all who drank of that pure stream,
'T was said, would in its mirror see
The gallant He, or lovely She,
That, in their natal stars' decree,
Would bless them through life's troubled dream.
But long the stream had ceased to flow;
Yet still the marble urchin stops,
As if to watch the feigned drops,
And mock the baffled lover's hopes
Who seeks in faith a bride below.
Beside this fountain's grassy brink,
The little Bard now sought to train
His wandering thoughts, and build a strain
For knightly ears; but all in vain;
On knightly themes he could not think.
He sang of Este's martial lord;
He numbered o'er each gallant deed,
And made afresh the caitiffs bleed,
That fell before his barbed steed,
Or oped their cleft helms to his sword.
310 
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
And yet his soul could not, as once,
The madness catch, and outward glow,
With flashing eye and knotted brow;
A softer mood would o'er him grow,
Do all he could, - a little dunce!
And then he tried the tournament,
And sang how Julian's mighty lance
O'erthrew the chivalry of France;
Then how he fell beneath a glance
From one bright eye, -which through him went.
Ah, now he touched the magic chord
That waked his soul through all her springs;
His true guitar itself now sings,
As if alive its happy strings,
Mingling its life with every word.
Ah, now he feels! - for that bright eye
Himself had felt in kindness beam,
And now, his Lady fair the theme,
His spirit trod, as in a dream,
The purple meadows of the sky.
For there alone her virtues took
A bodied form, substantial, true,
That to the inward senses grew,
In angel shapes, distinct to view,
On which't were bliss enough to look.
29 *
341
-1, I 
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
The tranced Boy, now starting, stood,
And gently breathed his last address:
"0 happy husband to possess
A wife so formed to love, to bless,
A wife so beautiful, so good!"
342 
343
THE BETROTHED.
", BLESS thee, happy, happy, revelling brook!
Whose merry voice within this lonely nook,
In ceaseless gurgle, all day long
Singeth the dancing leaves among;
I love, - 0, how I love thy song!"
So from its joyous fount the almost bride,
Sweet Esther, poured her heart that brook beside.
The mystic word had passed its coral gate,
The little mystic I Yes that sealed her fate:
'T is now upon the outward air;
Yet not, like other sounds, to share
The common death; for, haply, there
The formless element that near it flew
Caught the warm breath, and into being grew.
Her page-like spirit now, that little word
Ever before her, like some fairy bird,
Flits in her path; to all around,
To every form, to every sound,
Imparting love; till e'en the ground, 
THE BETROTHED.
The dull, dark ground beneath, the trees above,
And chiming breezes, all, breathe only love.
And with that little word there ever comes
A tune like that the homeward wild-bee hums,
Shaping in sound her winter's store.
The future now seems brimming o'er
With nameless good; nor asks she more
Of jealous Time, than dimly thus to look
Into his bright, unlettered, future book.
One only form of all the crowded past
She could not, if she would, from memory cast, -
Nay, from her sight; for wheresoe'er
She turns or looks, afar or near,
That haunting formt is ever there.
Her own sweet Poet, too, no other gives,E'en on his unread page that image lives;
And, sooth to say, she loves that page the more,No, never had it touched her so before:
She loves the woods, the earth, the sky;
For all that in their empires lie
But teem of him,- that dearer L1
On which she may not blush for aye to dwell,That other self she cannot love too well.
344 
SONNET
ON THE STATUE OF AN ANGEL, BY BIENAIMEI, IN THE POSSESSION OF
J. S. COPLEY GREENE, ESQ,
AH, who can look on that celestial face,
And kindred for it claim with aught on earth?
If ever here more lovely form had birth,No, never that supernal purity,- that grace
So eloquent of unimpassioned love!
That, by a simple movement, thus imparts
Its own harmonious peace, the while our hearts
Rise, as by instinct, to the world above.
And yet we look on cold, unconscious stone.
But what is that which thus our spirits own
As Truth and Life?'T is not material Art, -
But e'en the Sculptor's soul to sense unsealed.
0, never may he doubt, -its witness so revealed,There lives within him an imrnmortal part!
3 41  
346
SONNET
ON THE LATE  S. T. COLERIDGE.
AND thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend!
No, never mnore thy gentle voice shall blend
With air of Earth its pure ideal tones,
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones,
The heart and intellect. And I no more
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep,
The Human Soul,- as when, pushed off the shore,
Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep,
Itself the while so bright! For oft we seemed
As on some starless sea, - all dark above,
All dark below,- yet, onward as we drove,
To plough up light that ever round us streamed.
But he who mourns is not as one bereft
Of all he loved: thy living Truths are left. 
-347
SO N NET.
IMMORTALITY.
To think for aye; to breathe immortal breath;
And know nor hope, nor fear, of ending death;
To see the myriad worlds that round us roll
WVax old and perish, while the steadfast soul
Stands fresh and mnoveless in her sphere of thought;
O God, omnipotent! who in me wrought
This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb,
When tile dead Past shall all in time absorb,
Will be but as begun, - 0, of thine own,
Give of the holy light that veils thy throne,
That darkness be not mine, to take my place,
Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space!
So may this wondrous Life, from sin made free,
Reflect thy love for aye, and to thy glory be. 
THE MARIGOLD.
INSCRLIBE) TO M1AS M        E-    D
ER~EWHILE it chanced two wandering Rays,  So then deposed a moon-struck Painter, -
Met on a cloud his upward gaze;
One dazzling bright, the other fainter.
Then came a strain so small and wild,
'T was like the sobs of fairy child
Lost in a rose; and then it streamed
Like distant bells; then, - else he dreamed,It language took; and thus it seemed:
"4 Ho! brilliant Brother! tell me how" )
" Nay, radiant Sister, tell me rather
How one so well beloved as thou
Could ever leave our royal Father?"
"He left me in the watery bow,
And sank so quick the sea below,
I lost my way, and bent my flight
To this high cloud, lest haply Night
Should quench on earth my feeble light."
348 
THE MARIGOLD.
" Dear, modest Topaz, say not so;
Beside yon star thou seem'st another, -
And brighter of the two, I trow!"
"But say, kind, dazzling Ruby Brother,
Why meet we in a place so drear?"
"0, how miscalled while thou art here,
Whose glory tracks thy very name!"
Nay, truant flatterer, cease, for shame!"
"Then, gentle Sister, know, I came
To edge this curtain-cloud with flame;
"But scarce had I my task begun,
When here I found a group of Azure
Changing rny fringe to purple dun; -
They said it was the Sun's good pleasure.
I knew't was false, - the dastard Rays!And gave them battle. Soon my blaze
'Gan curl o'er each devoted head:
Anon they burnt to dusky red,
Then ashy gray, - and then they fled.
"And when I turned to join my Sire,
His car was gone, nor'bove the ocean
Was seen but one faint streak of fire,
Left by its wheels' too rapid motion.
So here I sit, his mourning son,
Paled by the fray, though I had won!"
"Nay, still, bright Brother, droop not so,"
Sweet Topaz said; "for what below,
If we but join, can near us show?
"We'11 mingle rays, and down to Earth
Descending with some gentle shower,
30
319 
THE MARIGOLD.
There give the world another birth,  A bright and gorgeous sunny Flower;
So bright, that when the leaden cloud
Of darkling thunder seems to shroud
The land in night, our face so fair
Shall shine upon the murky air
As if a little sun were there!"
" Sweet Topaz, yes, " the Ruby said;
" From thee for worlds I would not vary,
So good and wise thy heart and head;
And we will call the flower Mary;
For once I saw a maiden's eyes
So like the brightness that we prize,
Their light, I'm sure, the name foretold,IT was hers,- but still our hue we'11 hold."
"We'11 call it, then, the Marigold."
" And this our charmn no sullen knave,"  So spake the blending Rays, together,"No spirit blue can ever brave
With eastern wind or hazy weather;
For all who look upon us now
Shall feel this name - they know not how -
Linked with a past and pleasant thought;
Some gentle kindness, never bought,Some gift of heart, for memory wrought."
35"7 0 
A FRAGMENT.
BuT most they wondered at the charm she gave
To common things, that seemed as from the grave
Of mouldering custom suddenly to rise
To fresh and fairer life; a life so new,
And yet so real, to the heart so true, -
They gazed upon the world as if a thousand ties,
Till now to all unknown, between them daily grew.
The life was hers,- from that mysterious cell
Whence sends the soul her self-diffusing spell,
Whose once embodied breath for ever is:
Though ruthless Time, with whom no creature strives,
At every step treads out a thousand lives,
Yet brings his wasting march no doom to this, -
Like heritage with air, that aye for all survives.
3S.. 
THE NIGHT-MARE.
ALMAHAYA.
SISTER Spirit, tell me where
Left you her, - the Lady fair,
Whom the star that ruled her birth
Gave to thee to guard on earth?
ZELICAN.
I saw her but now, as I left my dell
To swing the tongue of yonder bell,
By me pass on the Twilight's steed, -
The pale gray steed, that loves to feed
On toadstools black, in swamps that grow,
And the feathers that fall from the moulting crow.
ALMAHAYA.
She went not alone so late, I trow?
ZELICAN.
Nay, not so; for by her side
A green-eyed Owl, as page, did ride.
ALMAHAYA.
And whither goes she, squired so?
ZELICAN.
To yon church-yard I saw her go. 
THE NIGHT-MARE.
ALMAHAYA.
But what, I pray thee, doth she there?
ZELICAN.
She goes to comb and curl her hair,
And scent it with the midnight dew
That drips from yonder mourning yew.
ALMAHAYA.
Look! - I see her through the gloom,
Making her toilet on a tomb.
I know her errand. Now't is clear
She trims her smiles and trims her hair
Thus in the moonless, starless air,
To meet the Fiend that oft doth lie
By day concealed in a pigeon-pie.
I know the Fiend: I've seen his eyes
Gleaming through those fatal pies;
Those pies that each at night become
A new-made grave, -when, dark and dumb,
The Fiend steps out to the Lady fair,
To ride by her side through the startled air,
On his red-hoofed, blue-eyed, black night-mare.
ZELICAN.
Hush, good Sister! - hist, I pray!
Sure I heard his night-mare neigh.
ALMAHAYA.
0, haste thee, then, your charge to save!'Tis the Fiend himself! In yonder grave
I see his head: and now he looms,
Like a column of smoke, above the tombs;
Now the blue eyes of his snorting mare
Like charnel-fires upon us glare;
She paws the ground;-bt, hark! that groan!
353 
THE NIGHT-MARE.
ZELICAN.
'T is only a kick she gave to a bone:
I've heard a skull thus near her moan.
ALMAHAYA.
But listen again!
ZELICAN.
'T is the laugh of despair;
For the Fiend is now with the Lady fair.
And see! they mount on the flashing air.
ALMAHAYA.
If I had flesh,'t would creep at this.
What's that? Dost hear?
ZELICAN.
'T is the adder's hiss
In the jaws of a toad that squats by the yew:
I've seen it so feed till it upward grew
To the size of a church.
ALMAIHAYA.
It grows so now!
And the vane on the steeple now brushes its brow.
But, mercy upon us! - 0, hear how it roars!
Like ten thousand thunders
ZELICAN.
The toad only snores,
After supping, good Sister.
ALMAHAYA.
But see that sight! -
Like a spark struck out from the solid night,
Down through the darkness comes a star.
Feel you not its fearful jar? -
'T is tumbling upon us! and with it the mare, -
But not her own rider,-'t is thiy Lady fair,
354 
THE NiGTT-.MARE.                 355
Now clinging for life to her shaggy mane.
0, save her, dear Sister!- she touches again
The earth, and- 0, horrible!- how the earth shakes!
ZELICAN.
Sweet Sister, no more. She is saved,-she awakes. 
A FRAGMENT.
WIsE is the face of Nature unto him
Whose heart, amid the business and the cares,
The cunning and bad passions, of the world,
Still keeps its freshness, and can look upon her
As when she breathed upon his schoolboy face
Her morning breath, from o'er the dewy beds
Of infant violets waking to the sun;When the young spirit, only recipient,
So drank in her beauties, that his heart
Would reel within him, joining jubilant
The dance of brooks and waving woods and flowers.
356 
357
THE MAGIC SLIPPEPTS.
TO MRS. g-, ON HER PRESENTING THE WRITER A PAIR OF CRIMSON
SLIPPERS WRtOUGHT BY HERSELF.
I KNOW not if a dream it were,
Or daylight scene in sunny air;
But once, methought, as stretched I lay
Beside a little forest Spring,
And musing on the cares that cling
To every heart, no earthly thing,
It seemed, could chase my gloom away.
Above that little Spring there stood,
Like sentries to the sleeping wood,
Two sister Pines, that night and day
Their vigil kept; and ever there
A soft, low murmur filled the air,As if a child his little prayer
Were striving in a dream to say. 
THE MIAGIC SLIIPPERS.
In sooth, it was a solemn sound;
So pure, so child-like, yet profound,
It seemed to hold me ill a spell.
And then, methought, the murmur broke
Its even stream, and strangely took
The form of words, and bade me look
Within that little forest Well.
I looked,- and lo! a crimson flush,
Like to a gentle mnaiden's blush,
O'erspread the Spring; and then a sigh
Breathed from the Pines.  A deeper hue,Which now to tiny vessels grew,
Riding at anchor o'er the blue
That dyed that dark, deep, nether sky.
But scarce could I the marvel note,
When straight within each magic boat
There stood two gallant Fairy Skippers;
And then anon they bore away,
Skimming the little azure bay
Swift to the bank where stretched I lay,
And took- the humble form of slippers!
And now, in sweetly soothing strain,
Thus came the Piny voice again: —
"0, deem not, man, the gift we send
Of little worth; that gift was wrought
Where kind affections hallow thought,
And give -what wealth has never bought -
In every gentle heart a friend."
358 
THE MAGIC SLIPPERS.
I seized the gift with eager joy;
And then,- as if again a boy,
A careless, happy boy once more,
How pure, and beautiful, and kind
Seemed all I saw! The very wind
That kissed my cheek then seemed to bind
My heart to all it travelled o'er.
359 
A FRAGMENT.
WHo knows himself must needs in prophecy
Too oft behold his own most sad reverse;
E'en like his noonday shadow,- once so true,
In form so fair, that the o'erpassing sun
Seemed, as in love, to robe it with the blue
Of his own heaven. Ah, then on that fair shade,
So pure and beautiful,'t were peace to look!
But now, how changed! distorted, black, and stretched
To strange, unnatural length by that same sun,
As towards the west he travels down to night,
Their common sepulchre. But where is hie,Ah, where,-with such foreknowledge blessed, or cursed?
360 
361
THE PART'ING.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC, AND INSCRIBED TO MISS R-    C-   D-.
NoT 4 Farewell!"  0, speak it never!
Time and Distance in it find
Limit never, - flying ever, -
Leaving darkened Hope behind.
Soon yon quiet vessel's motion,
Soon shall yonder rolling ocean,
Throw my spirit o'er the pa s,
Closing now between us fast.
Bid me, then, if aught be spoken,
Bid me cheerily "Good night";
So that, waking, aye unbroken
Memory link it with the light.
Thus shall every morning cheer me,
Bring thine image ever near me,
With that word that seems to say,
' Part we only for a day."
:31 
TIlE  IPA)lTING,
Yet I know not why I ask thec
Now to play a hollow part:
No, I will not, will not task thee
Thus to veil an aching heart.
Truth and thou were never parted;
Part not now, though, broken-hearted,
Truth thy faltering tongue compel
Bitterly to say, " Farewell!"
Speak it, then, nor stay the sadness
Brimming now within thine eyes:
Weep, 0, weep,- nor think it madness
Thus thy burning tear to prize.
Man to woe was ever plighted;
Then be mine with thine united.
0,'t were bliss, to him unknown,
Mourning for himself alone.
362 
ON GREENOUGH'S GIROUP OF THE
ANGEL AND CHILD.
I STOOD alone: nor word, nor other sound,
Broke the mute solitude that closed me round;
As when the Air doth take her midnight sleep,
Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep,
So slept she now, at noon. But not alone
My spirit then: a light within me shone
That was not mine; and feelings undefined,
And thoughts, flowed in upon me not my own.
'T was that deep mystery, - for aye unknown,  The living presence of Another's mind.
Another mind was there,- the gift of few, -
That by its own strong will can all that's true
In its own nature unto others give,
And, mingling life with life, seem there to live.
I felt it then in mine: and, 0, how fair,
How beautiful, the thoughts that met me there, —
Visions of Love and Purity and Truth!
Though form distinct had each, they seemed as't were
Embodied all of one celestial air,
To beam for ever in coequal youth.
363 
ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF
And thus I learned, as in the mind they moved,
These Stranger Thoughts the one the other loved;
That Purity loved Truth, because't was true,
And Truth, because't was pure, the first did woo;
While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain;
Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain
That bound them all.  Thus sure, as passionless,
Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain
Of melting sounds they seemed; then, changed again,
One Angel Form they took, - Self-Happiness.
This Angel Form the gifted Artist saw
That held me in his spell.'T was his to draw
The veil of sense, and see the immortal race,
The Forms spiritual that know not place.
He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth,
And stayed it by his will, and gave it birth
E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell,
The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth
The shape ethereal fix, and body forth
A Being of the skies, -with man to dwell.
And then another Form beside it stood:
'T was one of this our world, though the warm blood
Had from it passed, - exhaled as in a breath
Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death.
Its little "dream of human life" had fled;
And yet it seemed not numbered with the dead,
But one emerging to a life so bright,
That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread,
Its very consciousness did seem to shed
Rays from within, and clothe it all in light.
364 
TIIE ANGEL  ANID CtilIID.
Now touched the Angel Form its little hand,
Turning upon it with a look so bland,
And yet so full of majesty, as less
Than holy natures never may impress,
And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook.
'I'The Creature of the Earth now felt that look,
And stood in blissful awe,- as one above,
WVho saw its name in the Eternal Book,
And Him that opened it; e'en Hlim that took
The Little Child, and blessed it in his love.
35
31 * 
SONG.
0, ASK me not why thus I weep;
I may not tell thee why:
The fountain oft is dark and deep
That gushes from the eye.
It should not be, I hear thee say,
While tlhou art by mny side; -
As if the heart could e'er be gay
Of one so soon a bride!
It is not grief that brings the tear,
Nor dread of coinig woe;
But, 0,'t is something which I fear
No mortal long may know.
For when I hear that tone of love,
Unlike all earthly sound,It seems like music from above,
That lifts me from the ground.
And yet I know that I'm of earth,
Where all that live must die:
And( these mv tears but ow-e thir birth
'I',i<!.-lr riI(}( l    Ii' i
:,(i:  
ON KEAN'S HAMLET.
O THOU who standest'mid the bards of old,
Like Chimborazo, when the setting sun
Has left his hundred mountains dark and dun,
Sole object visible, the imperial One,
In purple robe, and diadem of gold,
Immortal Shakspeare! who can hope to tell,
With tongue less gifted, of the pleasing sadness
Wrought in thy deepest scenes of woe and madness?
Who hope by words to paint the ecstatic gladness
Of spirits leaping'mid thy merry spell?
When I have gazed upon thy wondrous page,
And seen, as in some necromantic glass,
Thy visionary forms before me pass,
Like breathing things of every living class,
Goblin and Hero, Villain, Fool, and Sage,
It seemed a task not Buonarroti's e'en,
Nor Raffael's hand could master by their art, -
To give the semblance of the meanest part
Of all thy vast creation, or the heart
Touch as thou touchest with a kindre(( sc'ne.
"sfi' 
ON KIEAN. Ii AMLET.
And vainer still, methought, by mimic tone,
And feigned look, and attitude, and air,
The Actor's toil; for self will have its share
With nicest mimicry, and, though it spare
To others largely, gives not all its own.
So did I deem, till, living to my view,
Scorning his country while he sought her good,
In Kemble forth the unbending Roman' stood;
Till, snuffing at the scent of human blood,   -
In Cooke strode forth the unrelenting Jew.t
But these were beings tangible in vice,
Their purpose searchable, their every thought
Indexed in living men; yet only sought,
Plain as they seem, by genius, - only bought
By genius even with laborious price.
But who, methought, in confidence so brave,
Doffing himself, shall dare that form assume
So strangely mixed of wisdom, wit, and gloom,
Playful in misery even at the tomb,
Of hope, distrust, of faith and doubt, the slave?
That being strange, that only in the brain
Perchance has lived, yet still so rarely knit
In all its parts, - its wisdom to its wit,
And doubt to faith, loathing to love, so fit, 
It seems like one that lived, and lives again!
Who, then, dare wear the princely Denmark's form?
What starts before me? - Ha!'t is he I've seen
Oft in a day-dream, when my youth was green,
The Dane himself, - the Dane! Who says't is Kean?
Yet sure it moves,- as if its blood were warm.
't Shylock.
368
* Coriola,nii-,. 
ON KEAN'S IItAMLET.
If this be Kean, then Ha'nlet lived indeed!
Look! how his purpose hurries him apace,
Seeking a fitful rest from place to place!
And yet his trouble fits him with a grace,
As if his heart did love what makes it bleed.
He seems to move as in a world ideal,
A world of thought, where wishes have their end
In wishing merely, where resolves but spend
Themselves resolving, - as his will did lend
Not counsel e'en his body to defend.
Or Kean or Hamlet, - what I see is real!
369 
A WORD.
MAN.
How vast a world is figured by a word!
A little word, a very point of sound,
Breathed by a breath, and in an instant heard;
Yet leaving that may well the soul astound,To sense a shape, to thought without a bound.
For who shall hope the mystery to scan
Of that dark being symbolized in man?
His outward form seems but a speck in space:
But what far star shall check the eternal race
Of one small thought that rays from out his mind?
For evil, or for good, still, still must travel on
His every thought, though worlds are left behind,
Nor backward can the race be ever run.
How fearful, then, that the first evil ray,
Still red with Abel's blood, is on its way!
370 
371
A FRAGMENT.
I.
O, WHO hath lived the ills to know
Which make the sum of life below,
That hath not felt, if,'mid the brood
Of half-wrought beings. hither sent
As if in promised punishment
Of vicious ancestry, there stood
A Form of purest symmetry,Where Nature seemed as she would try,
In spite of Vice, to keep on earth
Some vestige of primeval birth;Ah, who on such a form hath dwelt,
And hath not in his gazing felt
A sudden stream of horror rush
Back on his heart, to think how soon,
Ere yet perchance she reach her noon,
The Giant Sin may grinning crush
This living flower of Paradise,May send its fragrance, born to rise,
Downward, a hellish sacrifice! 
A  F.rL, g  I?dN T.
There is a deep, foreboding flush,
That fain would seem a truant blush,
Doth in the smooth and lovely cheek
Of youthful Beauty oft bespeak
The victim of a swift decay;
And, when the light of love doth rise
Eflulgent in her lucid eyes,
Full many a heart, that joyous fell
A captive to their radiant spell,
May now in bitter sadness tell
How, like the last protracted ray
Of the last Greenland summer day,
That flashes on the western wave,
They flashed, and sunk,- but sunk into the grave!
II.
So seemed Monaldi to the eye
Experienced in this world of woe;
Too blest for mortal long below, -
Too blest for one who blest would die.
Of lineage proud, his ancient name
Had long in Fiorenza stood
The record of the noblest blood
Which flowed for Fiorenza's fame.
And yet on him did Nature's hand
Such rare and varied gifts bestow,
His virtues rather seemed to throw
A heritless, reflected grace
Through ages backl upon his race,
The mightiest of a mighty land.
372 
A FRAGMENT.
Nor were the lighter gifts denied
Of manly form or noble mien;
Such form, if ancient Greece had seen,
Like Jason's had been deified,
And virgin hands with flowers had dressed
An altar for the heavenly guest,
As if, to bless their grateful eyes,
Apollo's self had left the skies,
Greeting their pious sacrifice.
*       *        *               *
She had an eye of such a hue,
So ever-varying, ever new,
That none on whom its lustre fell
Could e'er forget,- could ever tell
If like the mild approach of day,
The morning twilight's watery gray;
Or like the noontide's dazzling blue;
Or beamy brown, when evening dew
Prolongs the dim, departing light;
Or the jet, that seems to quench the sight,
Of a starless, still autumnal night.
For oft't was like an armed knight,
In steel encompassed, dark and bright,
And fiercely flashed, as if't would lead
Onward to some immortal deed:
And then it seemed an elfin well,
Imbowered in some sequestered dell,
Where Cupids sport in ceaseless motion,
Bathing as in an amber ocean!
Ah, then he wished that life would prove
For ever thus, a dream of love!
32
3.73 
A FRAGMENT.
But oft, - more oft,- with searing pain,
It seemed a wandering comet's train,
Streaming athwart his burning brain,Foreboding with its lurid flame
An evil yet without a name!
And well, Monaldi, mayst thou rue
This vision which thy fancy drew;
For thine was but a fearful bliss, -
A trancing, but a poisoned, kiss!
*          *          *          *           *
374 
375
ON MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T IS not to honor thee by verse of mine
I bear a record of thy wondrous power;
Thou stand'st alone, and needest not to shine
With borrowed lustre: for the light is thine
Which no man giveth; and, though comets lower
Portentous round thy sphere, thou still art bright;
Though many a satellite about thee fall,
Leaving their stations merged in trackless night,
Yet take not they from that supernal light
Which lives within thee, sole, and free of all. 
376
RUBEN S.
THUS o'er his art indignant Rubens reared
His mighty head, nor critic armies feared.
His lawless style, from vain pretension free,
Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
High o'er the rocks of Reason's ridgy verge
Impending hangs; but, ere the foaming surge
Breaks o'er the bound, the under-ebb of taste
Back from the shore impels the watery waste. 
377
TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE DIARY OF
~AN E5NUYEE,"~I
AN ENNUYEE,77
ONE OF THE TRUEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL BOOKS EVER WR1T                  TEN ON ITALY.
SWEET, gentle Sibyl! would I had the charim,
E'en while the spell upon my heart is warm,
To waft my spirit to thy far-off dreams,
That, giving form and melody to air,
The long-sealed fountains of my youth might there
Before thee shout, and toss their starry stream,
Flushed with the living light which youth alone
Sheds like the flash from heaven, - that straight is gon-e!
For thou hast waked as from the sleep of years, -
No, not the memory, with her hopes and fears,
But e'en the breathing, bounding, present youth;
And thou hast waked him in that vision clime,
Which, having seen, no eye the second time
May ever see in its own glorious truth; 
TO  TIIE  AUTilOln OF
As if it were not, in this world of strife,
Save to the first deep consciousness of life.
And yet, by thy sweet-sorcery, is mine
Again the same fresh heart, - e'en fresh as thine,  As when, entranced, I saw the mountain kings,
The giant Alps, from their dark purple beds
Rise ere the sun,* the while their crowned heads
Flashed with his thousand heralds' golden wings;
The while the courtly Borromean Isles
Looked on their mirrored forms with rippling smiles.
E'en in thy freshness do I see thee rise,
Bright, peerless Italy, thy gorgeous skies,
Thy lines of harmony, thy nameless hues,As't were by passing Angels sportive dropped
From flowers of Paradise, but newly cropped,
Still bathed and glittering with celestial dews!
I see thee, - and again what visions pass,
Called up by thee, as in some magic glass!
Again I feel the Tuscan Zephyrs brush
My youthful brow, and see them laughing rush,
As if their touch another sense had given,
Swift o'er the dodging grass, like living things;
In myriads glancing from their flickering wings
The rose and azure of their native heaven; —
And now they mnount, and through the sullen green
Of the dark laurel dart a silvery sheen.
* The writer passed a night, and saw the sun rise, on the Lago Maggiore.
378 
TIlE DIAI{Y OF AN 1lNNUYIF- E,
0, now, as once, pure playmates of the soul!
Bear me, as then, where the white billows roll
Of yon ethereal ocean, poised above.
How touching thus from that o'erhanging sea
To look upon the world! Now, more to me
Its wrongs and sorrows, nay, a wider love
Grows on my heart, than where its pleasures press,
And throng me round as one whom they would
bless.
This is thy voice, kind Nature, in the heart;
Who loves thee truly, loves thee not apart
From his own kind; for in thy humblest work
There lives anl echo to some unborn thought,
Akin to man, his Maker, or his lot.
Nay, who has found not in his bosom lurk
Sonme stranger feeling, far remote from earth,
That still through earthly things awaits a birth?
0, thus to me be thou still ministrant,
Still of the universal Love descant
That all things crave,- thus visible in thee,
The type and register of what man was
Before sin thralled him, substituting laws
That fain from suffering would his spirit free;
Nay, more, be hope,- the soul's sure prophecy
Of lost, regained, primeval harmony.
And now to thee, fair Sibyl, would I turn;
But how to say farewell I may not learn.
We part, - but not forgetting we have met.
379 
380 TO TIlE AUTIIOR OF TIlE DIARY OF AN ENNUYELE.
May that sweet sadness thou so well dost feign
To thee be ever feigned, -be but the strain
To which the happy soul doth often set
Her happiest moods; for joy and sadness dwell
As neighbours in the heart; - and now farewell!
THE END.