Art

Because the soul is progressive, it never quite repeats itself, but in every act attempts the production of a new and fairer whole. This appears in works both of the useful and the fine arts, if we employ the popular distinction of works according to their aim either at use or beauty. Thus in our fine arts, not imitation but creation is the aim. In landscapes the painter should give the suggestion of a fairer creation than we know. The details, the prose of nature he should omit and give us only the spirit and splendor. He should know that the landscape has beauty for his eye because it expresses a thought which is to him good; and this because the same power which sees through his eyes is seen in that spectacle; and he will come to value the expression of nature and not nature itself, and so exalt in his copy the features that please him. He will give the gloom of gloom and the sunshine of sunshine. In a portrait he must inscribe the character and not the features, and must esteem the man who sits to him as himself only an imperfect picture or likeness of the aspiring original within.

Because the soul is always progressing, it never quite repeats itself. In every act, it tries to create a new and more beautiful whole. We can see this in works of both useful and fine art. This is the popular distinction between works intended for use and those intended for beauty. In the fine arts, then, the aim is not imitation but creation. In landscapes, the painter should suggest a more beautiful creation than the one we know. He should leave out the details, the plain facts of nature, and give us only its spirit and splendor. The painter should understand why a landscape is beautiful to his eye. It expresses a thought that he finds good. And this is because the same power that sees through his eyes is visible in the landscape. He will come to value what nature expresses, rather than nature itself. So, in his painting, he will bring out the features that please him. He will capture the very gloom of gloom and the sunshine of sunshine. In a portrait, he must show character, not features. He must regard the person sitting for him as only an imperfect likeness of the aspiring original within.

What is that abridgment and selection we observe in all spiritual activity, but itself the creative impulse? for it is the inlet of that higher illumination which teaches to convey a larger sense by simpler symbols. What is a man but nature’s finer success in self-explication? What is a man but a finer and compacter landscape than the horizon figures,—nature’s eclecticism? and what is his speech, his love of painting, love of nature, but a still finer success,—all the weary miles and tons of space and bulk left out, and the spirit or moral of it contracted into a musical word, or the most cunning stroke of the pencil?

What is the shortening and selection we see in all spiritual activity, if not the creative impulse itself? It opens the way to a higher illumination that teaches us to express more meaning through simpler symbols. What is a person but nature’s finer achievement in explaining itself? What is a person but a finer, more compact landscape than the one spread out before us? A person is nature’s own selection of its best. And what are a person’s speech, love of painting, and love of nature but a still finer achievement? They leave out all the weary miles and the sheer mass of things. They condense the spirit or meaning of it all into a musical word or the most skillful stroke of a pencil.

But the artist must employ the symbols in use in his day and nation to convey his enlarged sense to his fellow-men. Thus the new in art is always formed out of the old. The Genius of the Hour sets his ineffaceable seal on the work and gives it an inexpressible charm for the imagination. As far as the spiritual character of the period overpowers the artist and finds expression in his work, so far it will retain a certain grandeur, and will represent to future beholders the Unknown, the Inevitable, the Divine. No man can quite exclude this element of Necessity from his labor. No man can quite emancipate himself from his age and country, or produce a model in which the education, the religion, the politics, usages and arts of his times shall have no share. Though he were never so original, never so wilful and fantastic, he cannot wipe out of his work every trace of the thoughts amidst which it grew. The very avoidance betrays the usage he avoids. Above his will and out of his sight he is necessitated by the air he breathes and the idea on which he and his contemporaries live and toil, to share the manner of his times, without knowing what that manner is. Now that which is inevitable in the work has a higher charm than individual talent can ever give, inasmuch as the artist’s pen or chisel seems to have been held and guided by a gigantic hand to inscribe a line in the history of the human race. This circumstance gives a value to the Egyptian hieroglyphics, to the Indian, Chinese and Mexican idols, however gross and shapeless. They denote the height of the human soul in that hour, and were not fantastic, but sprung from a necessity as deep as the world. Shall I now add that the whole extant product of the plastic arts has herein its highest value, as history; as a stroke drawn in the portrait of that fate, perfect and beautiful, according to whose ordinations all beings advance to their beatitude?

But the artist must use the symbols of his own time and country to convey his broader understanding to others. Thus, the new in art is always made from the old. The Genius of the Hour leaves its permanent mark on a work, giving it an inexpressible charm for the imagination. To the extent that the spirit of an age overwhelms an artist and finds expression in his work, the work will retain a certain grandeur. To that extent, it will represent the Unknown, the Inevitable, and the Divine to those who see it in the future. No one can entirely exclude this element of Necessity from his work. No one can completely free himself from his age and country. Nor can anyone create a model untouched by the education, religion, politics, customs, and arts of his time. However original, willful, or fanciful an artist may be, he cannot erase every trace of the thoughts surrounding his work as it grew. Even when he avoids a custom, his avoidance reveals it. Without his choosing or even seeing it, the air he breathes and the idea on which he and his contemporaries live and work compel him to share the style of his time. Yet he does not know what that style is. What is inevitable in a work has a greater charm than individual talent can ever give it. The artist’s pen or chisel seems to have been held and guided by a gigantic hand, recording a line in the history of the human race. This gives value to Egyptian hieroglyphics and to Indian, Chinese, and Mexican idols, however crude and shapeless they may be. They show how high the human soul had reached at that moment. They were not fanciful creations, but sprang from a necessity as deep as the world. Shall I now add that all surviving works of the visual arts have their highest value in this respect, as history; as a stroke in the portrait of that perfect and beautiful fate whose decrees guide all beings toward their blessedness?

Thus, historically viewed, it has been the office of art to educate the perception of beauty. We are immersed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision. It needs, by the exhibition of single traits, to assist and lead the dormant taste. We carve and paint, or we behold what is carved and painted, as students of the mystery of Form. The virtue of art lies in detachment, in sequestering one object from the embarrassing variety. Until one thing comes out from the connection of things, there can be enjoyment, contemplation, but no thought. Our happiness and unhappiness are unproductive. The infant lies in a pleasing trance, but his individual character and his practical power depend on his daily progress in the separation of things, and dealing with one at a time. Love and all the passions concentrate all existence around a single form. It is the habit of certain minds to give an all-excluding fulness to the object, the thought, the word, they alight upon, and to make that for the time the deputy of the world. These are the artists, the orators, the leaders of society. The power to detach and to magnify by detaching is the essence of rhetoric in the hands of the orator and the poet. This rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary eminency of an object,—so remarkable in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle,—the painter and sculptor exhibit in color and in stone. The power depends on the depth of the artist’s insight of that object he contemplates. For every object has its roots in central nature, and may of course be so exhibited to us as to represent the world. Therefore each work of genius is the tyrant of the hour and concentrates attention on itself. For the time, it is the only thing worth naming to do that,—be it a sonnet, an opera, a landscape, a statue, an oration, the plan of a temple, of a campaign, or of a voyage of discovery. Presently we pass to some other object, which rounds itself into a whole as did the first; for example a well-laid garden; and nothing seems worth doing but the laying out of gardens. I should think fire the best thing in the world, if I were not acquainted with air, and water, and earth. For it is the right and property of all natural objects, of all genuine talents, of all native properties whatsoever, to be for their moment the top of the world. A squirrel leaping from bough to bough and making the Wood but one wide tree for his pleasure, fills the eye not less than a lion,—is beautiful, self-sufficing, and stands then and there for nature. A good ballad draws my ear and heart whilst I listen, as much as an epic has done before. A dog, drawn by a master, or a litter of pigs, satisfies and is a reality not less than the frescoes of Angelo. From this succession of excellent objects we learn at last the immensity of the world, the opulence of human nature, which can run out to infinitude in any direction. But I also learn that what astonished and fascinated me in the first work astonished me in the second work also; that excellence of all things is one.

Historically, art has served to teach us to recognize beauty. We are surrounded by beauty, but our eyes cannot see it clearly. Art must awaken and guide our dormant sense of beauty by showing us individual features. We carve and paint, or look at carvings and paintings, as students of the mystery of Form. Art’s power lies in separating one object from the overwhelming variety around it. Until one thing stands apart from its connections to other things, we can enjoy and contemplate, but not think. Our happiness and unhappiness produce nothing. An infant lies in a pleasant trance. But the child’s individual character and practical ability depend on daily progress in separating things and dealing with them one at a time. Love and all the passions concentrate all existence around a single form. Certain minds have a habit of giving all their attention to whatever object, thought, or word they settle on. For the time being, they make it stand in for the world. These are the artists, the orators, and the leaders of society. The ability to separate something and make it greater by separating it is the essence of rhetoric for orators and poets. This rhetoric is the power to establish an object’s importance for the moment. It is especially remarkable in Burke, Byron, and Carlyle. Painters and sculptors display the same power in color and stone. The power depends on the depth of the artist’s insight into the object being considered. Every object has its roots in the heart of nature. So any object can be presented to us in a way that represents the world. Therefore, every work of genius rules its moment and concentrates attention on itself. For the time being, creating such a work is the only thing worth mentioning. It may be a sonnet, an opera, a landscape, a statue, or a speech. Or it may be the plan for a temple, a campaign, or a voyage of discovery. Soon we turn to another object, which becomes a complete whole, just as the first did. It might be a well-planned garden, for example. Then nothing seems worth doing except planning gardens. I would think fire the best thing in the world if I did not know air, water, and earth. It is the right and property of all natural objects, all genuine talents, and all inborn qualities whatsoever to be, for their moment, the most important thing in the world. A squirrel leaps from branch to branch, making the whole wood one wide tree for its pleasure. It fills the eye no less than a lion. It is beautiful and self-sufficient, and there and then it stands for nature. A good ballad draws my ear and heart while I listen, as much as an epic has done before. A dog drawn by a master, or a litter of pigs, satisfies me and feels no less real than Angelo’s frescoes. From this succession of excellent objects, we finally learn the immensity of the world. We also learn the richness of human nature, which can extend infinitely in any direction. But I also learn that what astonished and fascinated me in the first work astonished me in the second, too. The excellence of all things is one.

The office of painting and sculpture seems to be merely initial. The best pictures can easily tell us their last secret. The best pictures are rude draughts of a few of the miraculous dots and lines and dyes which make up the ever-changing “landscape with figures” amidst which we dwell. Painting seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the limbs. When that has educated the frame to self-possession, to nimbleness, to grace, the steps of the dancing-master are better forgotten; so painting teaches me the splendor of color and the expression of form, and as I see many pictures and higher genius in the art, I see the boundless opulence of the pencil, the indifferency in which the artist stands free to choose out of the possible forms. If he can draw every thing, why draw any thing? and then is my eye opened to the eternal picture which nature paints in the street, with moving men and children, beggars and fine ladies, draped in red and green and blue and gray; long-haired, grizzled, white-faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant, dwarf, expanded, elfish,—capped and based by heaven, earth and sea.

The purpose of painting and sculpture seems to be only a beginning. The best pictures can easily reveal their final secret. They are rough sketches of a few of the miraculous dots, lines, and colors that make up the ever-changing “landscape with figures” in which we live. Painting seems to be for the eye what dancing is for the limbs. Once dancing has trained the body to be poised, nimble, and graceful, the dancing teacher’s steps are better forgotten. In the same way, painting teaches me the splendor of color and the expressive power of form. As I see more pictures and greater genius in the art, I see the limitless richness of the artist’s pencil. I see how freely the artist can choose among all possible forms. If an artist can draw everything, why draw anything? Then my eyes are opened to the eternal picture that nature paints in the street. Men and children, beggars and fine ladies move about, dressed in red, green, blue, and gray. They are long-haired, gray-haired, white-faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant, tiny, broad, or elfish. Above them is heaven, and beneath them are earth and sea.

A gallery of sculpture teaches more austerely the same lesson. As picture teaches the coloring, so sculpture the anatomy of form. When I have seen fine statues and afterwards enter a public assembly, I understand well what he meant who said, “When I have been reading Homer, all men look like giants.” I too see that painting and sculpture are gymnastics of the eye, its training to the niceties and curiosities of its function. There is no statue like this living man, with his infinite advantage over all ideal sculpture, of perpetual variety. What a gallery of art have I here! No mannerist made these varied groups and diverse original single figures. Here is the artist himself improvising, grim and glad, at his block. Now one thought strikes him, now another, and with each moment he alters the whole air, attitude and expression of his clay. Away with your nonsense of oil and easels, of marble and chisels; except to open your eyes to the masteries of eternal art, they are hypocritical rubbish.

A sculpture gallery teaches the same lesson more sternly. Just as painting teaches us about color, sculpture teaches us the anatomy of form. After seeing fine statues, I enter a public gathering and understand what the speaker meant who said, “When I have been reading Homer, all men look like giants.” I too see that painting and sculpture are exercise for the eye. They train it to notice the fine and unusual details it is meant to see. No statue can match a living person. A living person has an endless variety that gives him an immense advantage over all ideal sculpture. What an art gallery I have here! No artist trapped in a manner made these varied groups and distinct, original individuals. Here is the artist himself, improvising at his block, grim and glad. Now one thought strikes him, now another. With each moment, he changes the whole appearance, posture, and expression of his clay. Away with your nonsense about oil paints and easels, marble and chisels. Unless they open your eyes to the mastery of eternal art, they are hypocritical rubbish.

The reference of all production at last to an aboriginal Power explains the traits common to all works of the highest art,—that they are universally intelligible; that they restore to us the simplest states of mind, and are religious. Since what skill is therein shown is the reappearance of the original soul, a jet of pure light, it should produce a similar impression to that made by natural objects. In happy hours, nature appears to us one with art; art perfected,—the work of genius. And the individual, in whom simple tastes and susceptibility to all the great human influences overpower the accidents of a local and special culture, is the best critic of art. Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not. The best of beauty is a finer charm than skill in surfaces, in outlines, or rules of art can ever teach, namely a radiation from the work of art of human character,—a wonderful expression through stone, or canvas, or musical sound, of the deepest and simplest attributes of our nature, and therefore most intelligible at last to those souls which have these attributes. In the sculptures of the Greeks, in the masonry of the Romans, and in the pictures of the Tuscan and Venetian masters, the highest charm is the universal language they speak. A confession of moral nature, of purity, love, and hope, breathes from them all. That which we carry to them, the same we bring back more fairly illustrated in the memory. The traveller who visits the Vatican, and passes from chamber to chamber through galleries of statues, vases, sarcophagi and candelabra, through all forms of beauty cut in the richest materials, is in danger of forgetting the simplicity of the principles out of which they all sprung, and that they had their origin from thoughts and laws in his own breast. He studies the technical rules on these wonderful remains, but forgets that these works were not always thus constellated; that they are the contributions of many ages and many countries; that each came out of the solitary workshop of one artist, who toiled perhaps in ignorance of the existence of other sculpture, created his work without other model save life, household life, and the sweet and smart of personal relations, of beating hearts, and meeting eyes; of poverty and necessity and hope and fear. These were his inspirations, and these are the effects he carries home to your heart and mind. In proportion to his force, the artist will find in his work an outlet for his proper character. He must not be in any manner pinched or hindered by his material, but through his necessity of imparting himself the adamant will be wax in his hands, and will allow an adequate communication of himself, in his full stature and proportion. He need not cumber himself with a conventional nature and culture, nor ask what is the mode in Rome or in Paris, but that house and weather and manner of living which poverty and the fate of birth have made at once so odious and so dear, in the gray unpainted wood cabin, on the corner of a New Hampshire farm, or in the log-hut of the backwoods, or in the narrow lodging where he has endured the constraints and seeming of a city poverty, will serve as well as any other condition as the symbol of a thought which pours itself indifferently through all.

All creation ultimately comes from a primal Power. This explains the qualities shared by all works of the highest art. Everyone can understand them, they restore us to the simplest states of mind, and they are religious. The skill shown in such art is the original soul appearing again, a beam of pure light. So it should make an impression like the one made by natural objects. In happy moments, nature seems one with art. It seems like perfected art, the work of genius. The best art critic is someone whose simple tastes and openness to all the great human influences outweigh the accidents of a particular local culture. Though we travel all over the world to find beauty, we must carry it with us or we will not find it. The best part of beauty is a charm finer than any skill with surfaces, outlines, or artistic rules can teach. It is the human character that shines through a work of art. The deepest and simplest qualities of our nature find wonderful expression in stone, canvas, or musical sound. In the end, those who possess these qualities can best understand that expression. The highest charm of Greek sculptures, Roman masonry, and the paintings of the Tuscan and Venetian masters is their universal language. All these works reveal a moral nature, breathing purity, love, and hope. What we bring to them, we carry away again, more beautifully expressed in our memory. A traveler visiting the Vatican passes from room to room through galleries of statues, vases, sarcophagi, and candelabra. There are beautiful forms of every kind, carved from the richest materials. The traveler risks forgetting the simple principles behind them all. The traveler may forget that these works arose from thoughts and laws in his own heart. He studies the technical rules evident in these wonderful remains. But he forgets that these works were not always gathered together like this. They are contributions from many ages and many countries. Each came from the solitary workshop of one artist, who perhaps worked without knowing that other sculptures existed. The artist created his work with no model except life: household life and the sweetness and pain of personal relationships. He drew on beating hearts and meeting eyes, on poverty and necessity, hope and fear. These were his inspirations, and these are the effects he brings home to your heart and mind. The strength of an artist determines how fully he can express his own character in his work. His material must not restrict or hinder him in any way. His need to express himself will turn even the hardest stone to wax in his hands. The material will let him fully convey himself, in all his stature and proportion. He need not burden himself with conventional ideas of nature and culture. Nor need he ask what is fashionable in Rome or Paris. Poverty and the circumstances of his birth have made his home, weather, and way of life both hateful and dear. He may live in a gray, unpainted wooden cabin at the corner of a New Hampshire farm, or in a backwoods log hut. He may live in a cramped lodging where he has endured the restrictions and outward appearances of city poverty. Any of these conditions will serve as well as any other to express a thought that flows equally through them all.

I remember when in my younger days I had heard of the wonders of Italian painting, I fancied the great pictures would be great strangers; some surprising combination of color and form; a foreign wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the spontoons and standards of the militia, which play such pranks in the eyes and imaginations of school-boys. I was to see and acquire I knew not what. When I came at last to Rome and saw with eyes the pictures, I found that genius left to novices the gay and fantastic and ostentatious, and itself pierced directly to the simple and true; that it was familiar and sincere; that it was the old, eternal fact I had met already in so many forms,—unto which I lived; that it was the plain you and me I knew so well,—had left at home in so many conversations. I had the same experience already in a church at Naples. There I saw that nothing was changed with me but the place, and said to myself—‘Thou foolish child, hast thou come out hither, over four thousand miles of salt water, to find that which was perfect to thee there at home?’ That fact I saw again in the Academmia at Naples, in the chambers of sculpture, and yet again when I came to Rome and to the paintings of Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci. “What, old mole! workest thou in the earth so fast?” It had travelled by my side; that which I fancied I had left in Boston was here in the Vatican, and again at Milan and at Paris, and made all travelling ridiculous as a treadmill. I now require this of all pictures, that they domesticate me, not that they dazzle me. Pictures must not be too picturesque. Nothing astonishes men so much as common-sense and plain dealing. All great actions have been simple, and all great pictures are.

I remember hearing about the wonders of Italian painting when I was young. I imagined that the great pictures would seem utterly strange to me. They would contain some surprising combination of color and form, a foreign wonder of exotic pearl and gold. I imagined them like the spears and flags of the militia, which play such tricks on schoolboys’ eyes and imaginations. I expected to see and gain something, though I did not know what. When I finally reached Rome and saw the pictures for myself, I found that genius left the colorful, fantastic, and showy to beginners. Genius went straight to what was simple and true. It was familiar and sincere. It was the old, eternal truth I had already encountered in so many forms, the truth I lived by. It was the familiar you and me I knew so well and had left at home in so many conversations. I had already had the same experience in a church at Naples. There I saw that only my surroundings had changed, and I said to myself, ‘You foolish child, have you come here, across four thousand miles of salt water, to find what was already perfect for you at home?’ I saw that same truth again in the sculpture rooms of the Academmia at Naples. I saw it once more when I came to Rome and saw the paintings of Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci. “What, old mole! workest thou in the earth so fast?” That truth had traveled beside me. What I thought I had left in Boston was here in the Vatican, and again at Milan and at Paris. It made all traveling seem as ridiculous as walking on a treadmill. I now ask this of all pictures: that they make me feel at home, not that they dazzle me. Pictures must not be too picturesque. Nothing astonishes people so much as common sense and plain dealing. All great actions have been simple, and all great pictures are simple too.

The Transfiguration, by Raphael, is an eminent example of this peculiar merit. A calm benignant beauty shines over all this picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost to call you by name. The sweet and sublime face of Jesus is beyond praise, yet how it disappoints all florid expectations! This familiar, simple, home-speaking countenance is as if one should meet a friend. The knowledge of picture-dealers has its value, but listen not to their criticism when your heart is touched by genius. It was not painted for them, it was painted for you; for such as had eyes capable of being touched by simplicity and lofty emotions.

Raphael’s The Transfiguration is an outstanding example of this special quality. A calm, kind beauty shines over the whole painting and goes straight to the heart. The painting seems almost to call you by name. The gentle and sublime face of Jesus is beyond praise, yet how it disappoints all extravagant expectations! His face is familiar and simple, and it speaks to you as if you had met a friend. The knowledge of art dealers has its value, but do not listen to their criticism when genius touches your heart. The painting was not made for them. It was made for you, for those whose eyes can be touched by simplicity and lofty emotions.

Yet when we have said all our fine things about the arts, we must end with a frank confession, that the arts, as we know them, are but initial. Our best praise is given to what they aimed and promised, not to the actual result. He has conceived meanly of the resources of man, who believes that the best age of production is past. The real value of the Iliad or the Transfiguration is as signs of power; billows or ripples they are of the stream of tendency; tokens of the everlasting effort to produce, which even in its worst estate the soul betrays. Art has not yet come to its maturity if it do not put itself abreast with the most potent influences of the world, if it is not practical and moral, if it do not stand in connection with the conscience, if it do not make the poor and uncultivated feel that it addresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is higher work for Art than the arts. They are abortive births of an imperfect or vitiated instinct. Art is the need to create; but in its essence, immense and universal, it is impatient of working with lame or tied hands, and of making cripples and monsters, such as all pictures and statues are. Nothing less than the creation of man and nature is its end. A man should find in it an outlet for his whole energy. He may paint and carve only as long as he can do that. Art should exhilarate, and throw down the walls of circumstance on every side, awakening in the beholder the same sense of universal relation and power which the work evinced in the artist, and its highest effect is to make new artists.

Yet after all our fine words about the arts, we must make a frank confession. The arts, as we know them, are only a beginning. Our highest praise goes to what they aimed at and promised, not to what they achieved. Anyone who believes that the best age of creative work is past has a low view of human potential. The real value of the Iliad or the Transfiguration is that each is a sign of power. Each is a wave or ripple in the stream of things to come. Each is a sign of the soul's endless effort to create, which the soul reveals even at its worst. Art has not yet reached maturity if it cannot stand alongside the world's most powerful influences. It must be practical and moral, and connected with conscience. It must make poor and uneducated people feel that it speaks to them with a voice of lofty encouragement. Art has higher work to do than the arts. The arts are failed births of an imperfect or corrupted instinct. Art is the need to create. But in its vast, universal essence, art is impatient with working under restraint. It is impatient with making cripples and monsters, as all pictures and statues are. Nothing less than the creation of humanity and nature is art's goal. A person should find in art an outlet for all their energy. They may paint and carve only as long as they can do that. Art should uplift us and tear down the walls of circumstance on every side. It should awaken in those who see it the same sense of connection to everything and of power that the work showed in the artist. Art's highest effect is to make new artists.

Already History is old enough to witness the old age and disappearance of particular arts. The art of sculpture is long ago perished to any real effect. It was originally a useful art, a mode of writing, a savage’s record of gratitude or devotion, and among a people possessed of a wonderful perception of form this childish carving was refined to the utmost splendor of effect. But it is the game of a rude and youthful people, and not the manly labor of a wise and spiritual nation. Under an oak-tree loaded with leaves and nuts, under a sky full of eternal eyes, I stand in a thoroughfare; but in the works of our plastic arts and especially of sculpture, creation is driven into a corner. I cannot hide from myself that there is a certain appearance of paltriness, as of toys and the trumpery of a theatre, in sculpture. Nature transcends all our moods of thought, and its secret we do not yet find. But the gallery stands at the mercy of our moods, and there is a moment when it becomes frivolous. I do not wonder that Newton, with an attention habitually engaged on the paths of planets and suns, should have wondered what the Earl of Pembroke found to admire in “stone dolls.” Sculpture may serve to teach the pupil how deep is the secret of form, how purely the spirit can translate its meanings into that eloquent dialect. But the statue will look cold and false before that new activity which needs to roll through all things, and is impatient of counterfeits and things not alive. Picture and sculpture are the celebrations and festivities of form. But true art is never fixed, but always flowing. The sweetest music is not in the oratorio, but in the human voice when it speaks from its instant life tones of tenderness, truth, or courage. The oratorio has already lost its relation to the morning, to the sun, and the earth, but that persuading voice is in tune with these. All works of art should not be detached, but extempore performances. A great man is a new statue in every attitude and action. A beautiful woman is a picture which drives all beholders nobly mad. Life may be lyric or epic, as well as a poem or a romance.

History is already old enough to have witnessed the decline and disappearance of particular arts. Sculpture ceased long ago to have any real effect. It began as a useful art, a form of writing, a primitive person's record of gratitude or devotion. Among a people with a wonderful eye for form, this childish carving was refined to the height of splendor. But sculpture is the play of a crude and youthful people. It is not the mature work of a wise and spiritual nation. Under an oak tree laden with leaves and nuts, under a sky full of eternal eyes, I stand amid the flow of life. But in our visual arts, especially sculpture, creation is driven into a corner. I cannot help seeing something small and trivial in sculpture, like toys and the cheap decorations of a theater. Nature goes beyond all our ways of thinking, and we have not yet discovered its secret. But a gallery is at the mercy of our moods, and there comes a moment when it seems frivolous. Newton's attention was usually fixed on the paths of planets and suns. I do not wonder that he asked what the Earl of Pembroke found to admire in “stone dolls.” Sculpture may teach a student how deep the secret of form is. It may also show how purely the spirit can express its meanings in that eloquent language. But a statue will look cold and false to that new energy which needs to flow through all things. That energy is impatient with imitations and things that are not alive. Pictures and sculptures are celebrations and festivals of form. But true art is never fixed. It is always flowing. The sweetest music is not in the oratorio. It is in the human voice when, in the life of the moment, it speaks in tones of tenderness, truth, or courage. The oratorio has already lost its connection to the morning, the sun, and the earth. But that persuasive voice is in tune with them. All works of art should be spontaneous performances, not detached objects. A great man is a new statue in every pose and action. A beautiful woman is a picture that drives all who see her nobly mad. Life can be lyric or epic, just like a poem or a romance.

A true announcement of the law of creation, if a man were found worthy to declare it, would carry art up into the kingdom of nature, and destroy its separate and contrasted existence. The fountains of invention and beauty in modern society are all but dried up. A popular novel, a theatre, or a ball-room makes us feel that we are all paupers in the alms-house of this world, without dignity, without skill or industry. Art is as poor and low. The old tragic Necessity, which lowers on the brows even of the Venuses and the Cupids of the antique, and furnishes the sole apology for the intrusion of such anomalous figures into nature,—namely, that they were inevitable; that the artist was drunk with a passion for form which he could not resist, and which vented itself in these fine extravagances,—no longer dignifies the chisel or the pencil. But the artist and the connoisseur now seek in art the exhibition of their talent, or an asylum from the evils of life. Men are not well pleased with the figure they make in their own imaginations, and they flee to art, and convey their better sense in an oratorio, a statue, or a picture. Art makes the same effort which a sensual prosperity makes; namely to detach the beautiful from the useful, to do up the work as unavoidable, and, hating it, pass on to enjoyment. These solaces and compensations, this division of beauty from use, the laws of nature do not permit. As soon as beauty is sought, not from religion and love but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker. High beauty is no longer attainable by him in canvas or in stone, in sound, or in lyrical construction; an effeminate, prudent, sickly beauty, which is not beauty, is all that can be formed; for the hand can never execute any thing higher than the character can inspire.

If someone worthy could truly declare the law of creation, art would be raised into the realm of nature. It would no longer exist as something separate from and opposed to nature. The springs of invention and beauty in modern society have almost dried up. A popular novel, a theater, or a ballroom makes us feel like beggars in the poorhouse of this world. We feel that we have no dignity, skill, or industry. Art is just as poor and low. The old tragic Necessity no longer lends dignity to the sculptor or the painter. Necessity casts its shadow over the faces of even the Venuses and Cupids of ancient art. It is the only excuse for bringing such unnatural figures into nature. They were inevitable. The artist was drunk with a passion for form that he could not resist. His passion found expression in these splendid excesses. But now artists and connoisseurs look to art to display their talent or shelter them from the evils of life. People are not pleased with the image they have of themselves. They turn to art and express their better sense of things in an oratorio, a statue, or a picture. Art makes the same effort as a life devoted to physical pleasure and prosperity. It tries to separate beauty from usefulness. It treats work as unavoidable, gets it over with, and, hating it, moves on to pleasure. The laws of nature do not permit these comforts and compensations or this separation of beauty from use. As soon as someone seeks beauty for pleasure, rather than out of religion and love, the search degrades them. They can no longer achieve the highest beauty in painting or sculpture, in music or poetry. All they can create is a weak, cautious, sickly beauty that is not beauty at all. For the hand can never create anything greater than the character can inspire.

The art that thus separates is itself first separated. Art must not be a superficial talent, but must begin farther back in man. Now men do not see nature to be beautiful, and they go to make a statue which shall be. They abhor men as tasteless, dull, and inconvertible, and console themselves with color-bags and blocks of marble. They reject life as prosaic, and create a death which they call poetic. They despatch the day’s weary chores, and fly to voluptuous reveries. They eat and drink, that they may afterwards execute the ideal. Thus is art vilified; the name conveys to the mind its secondary and bad senses; it stands in the imagination as somewhat contrary to nature, and struck with death from the first. Would it not be better to begin higher up,—to serve the ideal before they eat and drink; to serve the ideal in eating and drinking, in drawing the breath, and in the functions of life? Beauty must come back to the useful arts, and the distinction between the fine and the useful arts be forgotten. If history were truly told, if life were nobly spent, it would be no longer easy or possible to distinguish the one from the other. In nature, all is useful, all is beautiful. It is therefore beautiful because it is alive, moving, reproductive; it is therefore useful because it is symmetrical and fair. Beauty will not come at the call of a legislature, nor will it repeat in England or America its history in Greece. It will come, as always, unannounced, and spring up between the feet of brave and earnest men. It is in vain that we look for genius to reiterate its miracles in the old arts; it is its instinct to find beauty and holiness in new and necessary facts, in the field and road-side, in the shop and mill. Proceeding from a religious heart it will raise to a divine use the railroad, the insurance office, the joint-stock company; our law, our primary assemblies, our commerce, the galvanic battery, the electric jar, the prism, and the chemist’s retort; in which we seek now only an economical use. Is not the selfish and even cruel aspect which belongs to our great mechanical works, to mills, railways, and machinery, the effect of the mercenary impulses which these works obey? When its errands are noble and adequate, a steamboat bridging the Atlantic between Old and New England and arriving at its ports with the punctuality of a planet, is a step of man into harmony with nature. The boat at St. Petersburg, which plies along the Lena by magnetism, needs little to make it sublime. When science is learned in love, and its powers are wielded by love, they will appear the supplements and continuations of the material creation.

The art that separates in this way is itself separated first. Art must not be a superficial talent. It must begin deeper within us. Today, people do not see beauty in nature, so they set out to make a beautiful statue. They despise people as tasteless, dull, and impossible to change. They console themselves with bags of paint and blocks of marble. They reject life as ordinary and create something lifeless that they call poetic. They hurry through the day’s tiresome chores and escape into pleasurable daydreams. They eat and drink so that afterward they can give form to the ideal. In this way, art is degraded. The word brings to mind its lesser and bad meanings. We imagine art as something opposed to nature and marked by death from the start. Would it not be better to begin at a higher level? We could serve the ideal before eating and drinking. We could serve it while eating and drinking, while breathing, and in the functions of life. Beauty must return to the useful arts. The distinction between fine and useful arts must be forgotten. If history were told truthfully and life were lived nobly, distinguishing the two would no longer be easy or possible. In nature, everything is useful and everything is beautiful. Everything in nature is beautiful because it is alive, moving, and able to reproduce. Everything is useful because it is balanced and beautiful. Beauty will not come because a legislature calls for it. Nor will it repeat in England or America the history it had in Greece. As always, beauty will come unannounced and spring up at the feet of brave and earnest people. We look in vain for genius to repeat its miracles in the old arts. Its instinct is to find beauty and holiness in new and necessary things. It finds them in the field and by the roadside, in the shop and mill. When genius comes from a religious heart, it will put everyday things to divine use. These include the railroad, the insurance office, the joint-stock company, our law, our primary assemblies, and our commerce. They also include the galvanic battery, the electric jar, the prism, and the chemist’s retort. For now, we seek only an economic use for these things. Our great mechanical works often seem selfish and even cruel. Is that not because mills, railways, and machinery serve the pursuit of profit? But when its purposes are noble and worthy, a steamboat can be a step toward human harmony with nature. Such a boat crosses the Atlantic between Old and New England and reaches its ports with the punctuality of a planet. The boat at St. Petersburg, which travels along the Lena by magnetism, needs little to make it sublime. When science is learned in love and its powers are used by love, those powers will appear to complete and extend the material creation.