A NOBLER want of man is served by nature, namely, the love of Beauty.
Nature serves a nobler human need, the love of beauty.
The ancient Greeks called the world κοσμος, beauty. Such is the constitution of all things, or such the plastic power of the human eye, that the primary forms, as the sky, the mountain, the tree, the animal, give us a delight in and for themselves; a pleasure arising from outline, color, motion, and grouping. This seems partly owing to the eye itself. The eye is the best of artists. By the mutual action of its structure and of the laws of light, perspective is produced, which integrates every mass of objects, of what character soever, into a well colored and shaded globe, so that where the particular objects are mean and unaffecting, the landscape which they compose, is round and symmetrical. And as the eye is the best composer, so light is the first of painters. There is no object so foul that intense light will not make beautiful. And the stimulus it affords to the sense, and a sort of infinitude which it hath, like space and time, make all matter gay. Even the corpse has its own beauty. But besides this general grace diffused over nature, almost all the individual forms are agreeable to the eye, as is proved by our endless imitations of some of them, as the acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear, the egg, the wings and forms of most birds, the lion's claw, the serpent, the butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the forms of many trees, as the palm.
The ancient Greeks called the world κοσμος, beauty. Perhaps this comes from the nature of all things, or from the human eye’s power to shape what it sees. Basic forms, like the sky, mountains, trees, and animals, delight us in and for themselves. This pleasure comes from their outlines, colors, movements, and grouping. It seems partly due to the eye itself. The eye is the best of artists. Its structure works with the laws of light to create perspective. Perspective brings every collection of objects, whatever their character, into a rounded whole, richly colored and shaded. Even when individual objects are ordinary and uninteresting, the landscape they form is rounded and balanced. And just as the eye is the best composer, light is the foremost painter. No object is so ugly that intense light cannot make it beautiful. Light stimulates the senses and has a kind of boundlessness, like space and time. These qualities make all matter bright and cheerful. Even a corpse has its own beauty. Beyond this grace spread throughout nature, almost all individual forms are pleasing to the eye. Our endless imitations of some of them prove this. We copy acorns, grapes, pine cones, heads of wheat, eggs, and the wings and bodies of most birds. We also copy the lion’s claw, snakes, butterflies, seashells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the shapes of many trees, like palms.
For better consideration, we may distribute the aspects of Beauty in a threefold manner.
To understand Beauty better, we can divide its aspects into three categories.
1. First, the simple perception of natural forms is a delight. The influence of the forms and actions in nature, is so needful to man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines of commodity and beauty. To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and craft of the street, and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In their eternal calm, he finds himself. The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough.
1. First, simply seeing nature’s forms is a delight. The influence of nature’s shapes and movements is so necessary to us that even its most basic benefits seem both useful and beautiful. Nature heals bodies and minds worn down by harmful work or company. It restores their strength and balance. The shopkeeper or lawyer leaves the noise and scheming of the street and sees the sky and woods. He becomes a man again. In their eternal calm, he finds himself. The eye seems to need a horizon to stay healthy. We never grow tired as long as we can see far enough.
But in other hours, Nature satisfies by its loveliness, and without any mixture of corporeal benefit. I see the spectacle of morning from the hill-top over against my house, from day-break to sun-rise, with emotions which an angel might share. The long slender bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light. From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations: the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind. How does Nature deify us with a few and cheap elements! Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; the sun-set and moon-rise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams.
But at other times, Nature satisfies us through its beauty alone, without any physical benefit. From the hilltop opposite my house, I watch the morning unfold, from daybreak to sunrise. I feel emotions that an angel might share. Long, slender bands of cloud float like fish in a sea of crimson light. From the earth, as from a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to share in its swift transformations. Its living magic reaches my earthly body, and I expand and breathe with the morning wind. How Nature makes us godlike with just a few simple things! Give me health and a day, and I will make the splendor of emperors look ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria. Sunset and moonrise are my Paphos and unimaginable fairy realms. Full noon shall be my England of the senses and the intellect. Night shall be my Germany of mystical philosophy and dreams.
Not less excellent, except for our less susceptibility in the afternoon, was the charm, last evening, of a January sunset. The western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes modulated with tints of unspeakable softness; and the air had so much life and sweetness, that it was a pain to come within doors. What was it that nature would say? Was there no meaning in the live repose of the valley behind the mill, and which Homer or Shakspeare could not reform for me in words? The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their back-ground, and the stars of the dead calices of flowers, and every withered stem and stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music.
Last evening’s January sunset was no less beautiful, though we are less receptive to beauty in the afternoon. The western clouds split again and again into pink flakes, shaded with indescribably soft colors. The air was so alive and sweet that going indoors was painful. What was nature trying to say? Was there no meaning in the lively stillness of the valley behind the mill? Was it a meaning neither Homer nor Shakespeare could put into words for me? The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, against the blue eastern sky. The star-shaped cups of dead flowers, and every withered stem and stalk coated with frost, add to the silent music.
The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is pleasant only half the year. I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The heavens change every moment, and reflect their glory or gloom on the plains beneath. The state of the crop in the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to week. The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides, which makes the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours, will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer. The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their time, follow each other, and the year has room for all. By water-courses, the variety is greater. In July, the blue pontederia or pickerel-weed blooms in large beds in the shallow parts of our pleasant river, and swarms with yellow butterflies in continual motion. Art cannot rival this pomp of purple and gold. Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.
City dwellers think the countryside is beautiful only half the year. I delight in the beauty of winter scenery. I believe it moves us as deeply as summer’s warmth and charm. To an attentive eye, every moment of the year has its own beauty. Every hour, the same field offers a scene never seen before and never to be seen again. The sky changes every moment, reflecting its splendor or gloom on the plains below. The crops on nearby farms change the land’s appearance from week to week. Native plants appear in turn along pastures and roadsides, forming a silent clock that marks the hours of summer. To a keen observer, they reveal even the divisions of the day. Groups of birds and insects follow one another, each arriving on schedule, like the plants. The year has room for them all. Along streams and rivers, the variety is greater. In July, blue pontederia, or pickerelweed, blooms in large beds in the shallows of our lovely river. Yellow butterflies swarm among the flowers, constantly moving. Art cannot rival this splendor of purple and gold. Indeed, the river is a never-ending celebration, displaying a new decoration each month.
But this beauty of Nature which is seen and felt as beauty, is the least part. The shows of day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock us with their unreality. Go out of the house to see the moon, and 't is mere tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines upon your necessary journey. The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it? Go forth to find it, and it is gone: 't is only a mirage as you look from the windows of diligence.
But the beauty of nature that we see and feel as beauty is its least important part. The sights of day, dewy mornings, rainbows, mountains, blossoming orchards, stars, moonlight, and shadows in still water are only part. Pursue them too eagerly, and they become mere displays, mocking us with their unreality. Go outside just to see the moon, and it is nothing but glitter. It will not please you as it does when it lights a journey you need to make. Who could ever grasp the beauty that shimmers in the golden afternoons of October? Go out to find it, and it is gone. It is only a mirage, glimpsed through the windows as you work.
2. The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element is essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which can be loved without effeminacy, is that which is found in combination with the human will. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he will. He may divest himself of it; he may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do, but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself. "All those things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue;" said Sallust. "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, "are always on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done,—perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades; are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of America;—before it, the beach lined with savages, fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the living picture? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelope great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to him, "You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to be drawn in an open coach, through the principal streets of the city, on his way to the scaffold. "But," his biographer says, "the multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere. Homer, Pindar, Socrates, Phocion, associate themselves fitly in our memory with the geography and climate of Greece. The visible heavens and earth sympathize with Jesus. And in common life, whosoever has seen a person of powerful character and happy genius, will have remarked how easily he took all things along with him,—the persons, the opinions, and the day, and nature became ancillary to a man.
2. A higher element, the spiritual, is essential to beauty’s perfection. Beauty becomes noble and divine when joined with the human will. Such beauty can be loved without weakening us. Beauty is the mark God places on virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also fitting, and makes the place and its witnesses shine. Great actions teach us that the universe belongs to every individual within it. Every rational being inherits all of nature as a birthright and estate. It is theirs, if they choose. They may give it up. They may crawl into a corner and surrender their kingdom, as most people do. Yet their very nature entitles them to the world. The strength of their thought and will determines how fully they take the world into themselves. “All those things for which people plow, build, or sail obey virtue,” said Sallust. “The winds and waves,” said Gibbon, “are always on the side of the most capable navigators.” So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. A noble act may take place amid great natural beauty. Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs spend a whole day dying in the steep pass of Thermopylae. The sun and moon each come once to look upon them. High in the Alps, beneath the threat of an avalanche, Arnold Winkelried gathers a bundle of Austrian spears into his side. He does this to break the enemy line for his comrades. Are these heroes not entitled to add the scene’s beauty to the beauty of their deeds? Columbus’s ship approaches the shore of America. Before it, Indigenous people line the beach, fleeing from all their cane huts. Behind it lies the sea, and around it rise the purple mountains of the West Indies. Can we separate the man from this living picture? Does the New World not clothe him fittingly in its palm groves and grasslands? Natural beauty always slips in like air and surrounds great actions. Sir Harry Vane was dragged up Tower Hill on a sled to face execution as a defender of English law. Someone in the crowd called to him, “You have never sat on so glorious a seat.” Charles II wanted to intimidate London’s citizens. He had the patriot Lord Russell taken through the city’s main streets in an open carriage on his way to execution. “But,” his biographer says, “the crowd imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting beside him.” In private places, amid squalid surroundings, an act of honesty or heroism seems at once to claim the sky as its temple. It claims the sun as its candle. Nature stretches out her arms to embrace humanity, if only human thoughts match her greatness. She willingly follows our steps with roses and violets. She bends her grand and graceful forms to adorn her beloved child. Let human thoughts be equally expansive, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous person is in harmony with her works and becomes the central figure of the visible world. In our memory, Homer, Pindar, Socrates, and Phocion belong naturally with Greece’s geography and climate. The visible heavens and earth are in harmony with Jesus. In everyday life, anyone who has seen a person of powerful character and gifted spirit will have noticed the same thing. Such a person easily carries everything along with them, the people, the opinions, and the day itself. Nature becomes their helper.
3. There is still another aspect under which the beauty of the world may be viewed, namely, as it becomes an object of the intellect. Beside the relation of things to virtue, they have a relation to thought. The intellect searches out the absolute order of things as they stand in the mind of God, and without the colors of affection. The intellectual and the active powers seem to succeed each other, and the exclusive activity of the one, generates the exclusive activity of the other. There is something unfriendly in each to the other, but they are like the alternate periods of feeding and working in animals; each prepares and will be followed by the other. Therefore does beauty, which, in relation to actions, as we have seen, comes unsought, and comes because it is unsought, remain for the apprehension and pursuit of the intellect; and then again, in its turn, of the active power. Nothing divine dies. All good is eternally reproductive. The beauty of nature reforms itself in the mind, and not for barren contemplation, but for new creation.
3. There is another way to view the beauty of the world, as an object of the intellect. Things relate not only to virtue but also to thought. The intellect seeks the absolute order of things as they exist in the mind of God, uncolored by emotion. The powers of thought and action seem to take turns. When one acts alone, it brings about a time when the other acts alone. Each is somewhat opposed to the other. But they are like the alternating periods of feeding and working in animals. Each prepares for the other and will be followed by it. As we have seen, beauty comes to us in action without being sought, and because it is not sought. Yet it remains for the intellect to grasp and pursue, and then, in turn, for the power of action. Nothing divine dies. All good forever produces new good. Nature's beauty takes shape again in the mind, not for fruitless contemplation, but for new creation.
All men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world; some men even to delight. This love of beauty is Taste. Others have the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they seek to embody it in new forms. The creation of beauty is Art.
All people are moved to some degree by the appearance of the world. Some even find delight in it. This love of beauty is Taste. Others feel this same love so strongly that admiration alone is not enough. They seek to give beauty new forms. The creation of beauty is Art.
The production of a work of art throws a light upon the mystery of humanity. A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of nature, in miniature. For, although the works of nature are innumerable and all different, the result or the expression of them all is similar and single. Nature is a sea of forms radically alike and even unique. A leaf, a sun-beam, a landscape, the ocean, make an analogous impression on the mind. What is common to them all,—that perfectness and harmony, is beauty. The standard of beauty is the entire circuit of natural forms,—the totality of nature; which the Italians expressed by defining beauty "il piu nell' uno." Nothing is quite beautiful alone: nothing but is beautiful in the whole. A single object is only so far beautiful as it suggests this universal grace. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, the musician, the architect, seek each to concentrate this radiance of the world on one point, and each in his several work to satisfy the love of beauty which stimulates him to produce. Thus is Art, a nature passed through the alembic of man. Thus in art, does nature work through the will of a man filled with the beauty of her first works.
Creating a work of art sheds light on the mystery of humanity. A work of art is a summary of the world. It is the result or expression of nature in miniature. Nature’s works are countless and all different. Yet the result or expression of them all is similar and unified. Nature is a sea of forms, fundamentally alike and even one. A leaf, a sunbeam, a landscape, and the ocean make similar impressions on the mind. What they all share, their perfection and harmony, is beauty. The standard of beauty is the full range of natural forms, the whole of nature. The Italians expressed this by defining beauty as “the many in one.” Nothing is completely beautiful on its own. Everything is beautiful as part of the whole. A single object is beautiful only to the extent that it suggests this universal grace. Poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, and architects each seek to concentrate the world’s radiance on a single point. Each seeks through their own work to satisfy the love of beauty that drives them to create. Art, then, is nature distilled through a human being. In art, nature works through the will of someone filled with the beauty of her original works.
The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy the desire of beauty. This element I call an ultimate end. No reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its largest and profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe. God is the all-fair. Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces of the same All. But beauty in nature is not ultimate. It is the herald of inward and eternal beauty, and is not alone a solid and satisfactory good. It must stand as a part, and not as yet the last or highest expression of the final cause of Nature.
The world thus exists for the soul to satisfy its desire for beauty. I call this an end in itself. No reason can be asked for or given for why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its broadest and deepest sense, is one way of expressing the universe. God is beauty itself. Truth, goodness, and beauty are simply different faces of the same whole. But beauty in nature is not the ultimate end. It points toward inner and eternal beauty, and alone is not a lasting and satisfying good. It must remain one part of nature’s ultimate purpose, not yet its final or highest expression.