In the development of the great series of animal organisms, the NervousSystem assumes more and more of an imperial character. The rank held byany animal is determined by this character, and not at all by its bulk, its strength, or even its utility. In like manner, in the developmentof the social organism, as the life of nations becomes more complex, Thought assumes a more imperial character; and Literature, in itswidest sense, becomes a delicate index of social evolution. Barbaroussocieties show only the germs of literary life. But advancingcivilisation, bringing with it increased conquest over materialagencies, disengages the mind from the pressure of immediate wants, andthe loosened energy finds in leisure both the demand and the means of anew activity: the demand, because long unoccupied hours have to berescued from the weariness of inaction; the means, because this callupon the energies nourishes a greater ambition and furnishes a widerarena. 

Literature is at once the cause and the effect of social progress. Itdeepens our natural sensibilities, and strengthens by exercise ourintellectual capacities. It stores up the accumulated experience of therace, connecting Past and Present into a conscious unity; and with thisstore it feeds successive generations, to be fed in turn by them. Asits importance emerges into more general recognition, it necessarilydraws after it a larger crowd of servitors, filling noble minds with anoble ambition. 

There is no need in our day to be dithyrambic on the glory ofLiterature. Books have become our dearest companions, yieldingexquisite delights and inspiring lofty aims. They are our silentinstructors, our solace in sorrow, our relief in weariness. With whatenjoyment we linger over the pages of some well-loved author! Withwhat gratitude we regard every honest book! Friendships, prefound andgenerous, are formed with men long dead, and with men whom we may neversee. The lives of these men have a quite personal interest for us. Their homes become as consecrated shrines. Their little ways andfamiliar phrases become endeared to us, like the little ways andphrases of our wives and children. 

It is natural that numbers who have once been thrilled with thisdelight should in turn aspire to the privilege of exciting it. Successin Literature has thus become not only the ambition of the highestminds, it has also become the ambition of minds intensely occupiedwith other means of influencing their fellow--with statesmen, warriors, and rulers. Prime ministers and emperors have striven fordistinction as poets, scholars, critics, and historians. Unsatisfiedwith the powers and privileges of rank, wealth, and their conspicuousposition in the eyes of men, they have longed also for the noblerprivilege of exercising a generous sway over the minds and hearts ofreaders. To gain this they have stolen hours from the pressure ofaffairs, and disregarded the allurements of luxurious ease, labouringsteadfastly, hoping eagerly. Nor have they mistaken the value of thereward. Success in Literature is, in truth, the blue ribbon ofnobility. 

There is another aspect presented by Literature. It has become aprofession; to many a serious and elevating profession; to many more amere trade, having miserable trade-aims and trade-tricks. As in everyother profession, the ranks are thronged with incompetent aspirants, without seriousness of aim, without the faculties demanded by theirwork. They are led to waste powers which in other directions might havedone honest service, because they have failed to discriminate betweenaspiration and inspiration, between the desire for greatness and theconsciousness of power. Still lower in the ranks are those who followLiterature simply because they see no other opening for theirincompetence; just as forlorn widows and ignorant old maids thrownsuddenly on their own resources open a school--no other means oflivelihood seeming to be within their reach. Lowest of all are thosewhose esurient vanity, acting on a frivolous levity of mind, urges themto make Literature a plaything for display. To write for a livelihood, even on a complete misapprehension of our powers, is at least arespectable impulse. To play at Literature is altogether inexcusable:the motive is vanity, the object notoriety, the end contempt. 

I propose to treat of the Principles of Success in Literature, in thebelief that if a clear recognition of the principles which underlie allsuccessful writing could once be gained, it would be no inconsiderablehelp to many a young and thoughtful mind. Is it necessary to guardagainst a misconception of my object, and to explain that I hope tofurnish nothing more than help and encouragement? There is help to begained from a clear understanding of the conditions of success; andencouragement to be gained from a reliance on the ultimate victory oftrue principles. More than this can hardly be expected from me, even onthe supposition that I have ascertained the real conditions. No one, itis to be presumed, will imagine that I can have any pretension ofgiving recipes for Literature, or of furnishing power and talent wherenature has withheld them. I must assume the presence of the talent, andthen assign the conditions under which that talent can alone achievereal success, no man is made a discoverer by learning the principles ofscientific Method; but only by those principles can discoveries bemade; and if he has consciously mastered them, he will find themdirecting his researches and saving him from an immensity of fruitlesslabour. It is something in the nature of the Method of Literature thatI propose to expound. Success is not an accident. All Literature isfounded upon psychological laws, and involves principles which are truefor all peoples and for all times. These principles we are to considerhere. 

II. 

The rarity of good books in every department, and the enormous quantityof imperfect, insincere books, has been the lament of all times. Thecomplaint being as old as Literature itself, we may dismiss withoutnotice all the accusations which throw the burden on systems ofeducation, conditions of society, cheap books, levity and superficialtyof readers, and analogous causes. None of these can be a VERA CAUSA;though each may have had its special influence in determining theproduction of some imperfect works. The main cause I take to be thatindicated in Goethe's aphorism: "In this world there are so few voicesand so many echoes. " Books are generally more deficient in sinceritythan in cleverness. Talent, as will become apparent in the course ofour inquiry, holds a very subordinate position in Literature to thatusually assigned to it. Indeed, a cursory inspection of the Literatureof our day will detect an abundance of remarkable talent---that is, ofintellectual agility, apprehensiveness, wit, fancy, and power ofexpression which is nevertheless impotent to rescue "clever writing"from neglect or contempt. It is unreal splendour; for the most partmere intellectual fireworks. In Life, as in Literature, our admirationfor mere cleverness has a touch of contempt in it, and is very unlikethe respect paid to character. And justly so. No talent can besupremely effective unless it act in close alliance with certain moralqualities. (What these qualities are will be specified hereafter. )

Another cause, intimately allied with the absence of moral guidancejust alluded to, is MISDIRECTION of talent. Valuable energy is wastedby being misdirected. Men are constantly attempting, without specialaptitude, work for which special aptitude is indispensable. 

"On peut etre honnete hornme et faire mal des vers. "

A man may be variously accomplished, and yet be a feeble poet. He maybe a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist, he may have dramatic faculty, yet be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallowthinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of workit is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as thisseems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to checka mistaken presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certainsusceptibility to the graces and refinements of Literature which hasbeen fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power;and these men, being really destitute of native power, are forced toimitate what others have created. They can understand how a man mayhave musical sensibility and yet not be a good singer; but they fail tounderstand, at least in their own case, how a man may have literarysensibility, yet not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist. They imagine that if they are cultivated and clever, can write what isdelusively called a "brilliant style, " and are familiar with themasterpieces of Literature, they must be more competent to succeed infiction or the drama than a duller man, with a plainer style andslenderer acquaintance with the "best models. " Had they distinctlyconceived the real aims of Literature this mistake would often havebeen avoided. A recognition of the aims would have pressed on theirattention a more distinct appreciation of the requirements. 

No one ever doubted that special aptitudes were required for music, mathematics, drawing, or for wit; but other aptitudes not less specialare seldom recognised. It is with authors as with actors: mere delightin the art deludes them into the belief that they could be artists. There are born actors, as there are born authors. To an observant eyesuch men reveal their native endowments. Even in conversation theyspontaneously throw themselves into the characters they speak of. Theymimic, often quite unconsciously the speech and gesture of the person. They dramatise when they narrate. Other men with little of thisfaculty, but with only so much of it as will enable them to imitate thetones and gestures of some admired actor, are misled by their vanityinto the belief that they also are actors, that they also could move anaudience as their original moves it. 

In Literature we see a few original writers, and a crowd of imitators:men of special aptitudes, and men who mistake their power of repeatingwith slight variation what others have done, for a power of creatinganew. The imitator sees that it is easy to do that which has alreadybeen done. He intends to improve on it; to add from his own storessomething which the originator could not give; to lend it the lustre ofa richer mind; to make this situation more impressive, and thatcharacter more natural. He is vividly impressed with the imperfectionsof the original. And it is a perpetual puzzle to him why the public, which applauds his imperfect predecessor, stupidly fails to recognisehis own obvious improvements. 

It is from such men that the cry goes forth about neglected genius andpublic caprice. In secret they despise many a distinguished writer, andprivately, if not publicly, assert themselves as immeasurably superior. The success of a Dumas is to them a puzzle and an irritation. They donot understand that a man becomes distinguished in virtue of somespecial talent properly directed; and that their obscurity is dueeither to the absence of a special talent, or to its misdirection. Theymay probably be superior to Dumas in general culture, or variousability; it is in particular ability that they are his inferiors. Theymay be conscious of wider knowledge, a more exquisite sensibility, anda finer taste more finely cultivated; yet they have failed to produceany impression on the public in a direction where the despisedfavourite has produced a strong impression. They are thus thrown uponthe alternative of supposing that he has had "the luck" denied to them, or that the public taste is degraded and prefers trash. Both opinionsare serious mistakes. Both injure the mind that harbours them. 

In how far is success a test of merit? Rigorously considered it is anabsolute test. Nor is such a conclusion shaken by the undeniable factthat temporary applause is often secured by works which have no lastingvalue. For we must always ask, What is the nature of the applause, andfrom what circles does it rise? A work which appears at a particularjuncture, and suits the fleeting wants of the hour, flattering thepassions of the hour, may make a loud noise, and bring its author intostrong relief. This is not luck, but a certain fitness between theauthor's mind and the public needs. He who first seizes the occasion, may be for general purposes intrinsically a feebler man than many whostand listless or hesitating till the moment be passed; but inLiterature, as in Life, a sudden promptitude outrivals vacillatingpower. 

Generally speaking, however, this promptitude has but rare occasionsfor achieving success. We may lay it down as a rule that no work eversucceeded, even for a day, but it deserved that success; no work everfailed but under conditions which made failure inevltable. This willseem hard to men who feel that in their case neglect arises fromprejudice or stupidity. Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true evenwhen the work once neglected has since been acknowleged superior to theworks which for a time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, isthe measure of the relatlon, temporary or enduring, which existsbetween a work and the public mind. The millet seed may beintrinsically less valuable than a pearl; but the hungry cock wiselyneglected the pearl, because pearls could not, and millet seeds could, appease his hunger. Who shall say how much of the subsequent success ofa once neglected work is due to the preparation of the public mindthrough the works which for a time eclipsed it?

Let us look candidly at this matter. It interests us all; for we haveall more or less to contend against public misconception, no less thanagainst our own defects. The object of Literature is to instruct, toanimate, or to amuse. Any book which does one of these thingssucceeds; any book which does none of these things fails. Failure isthe indication of an inability to perform what was attempted: the aimwas misdirected, or the arm was too weak: in either case the mark hasnot been hit. 

"The public taste is degraded. " Perhaps so; and perhaps not. But ingranting a want of due preparation in the public, we only grant thatthe author has missed his aim. A reader cannot be expected to beinterested in ideas which are not presented intelligibly to him, nordelighted by art which does not touch him; and for the writer to implythat he furnishes arguments, but does not pretend to furnish brains tounderstand the arguments, is arrogance. What Goethe says about the mostlegible handwriting being illegible in the twilight, is doubtless true;and should be oftener borne in mind by frivolous objectors, who declarethey do not understand this or do not admire that, as if their want oftaste and understanding were rather creditable than otherwise, and weredecisive proofs of an author's insignificance. But this reproof, whichis telling against individuals, has no justice as against the public. For--and this is generally lost sight of--the public is composed of theclass or classes directly addressed by any work, and not of theheterogeneous mass of readers. Mathematicians do not write for thecirculating library. Science is not addressed to poets. Philosophy ismeant for students, not for idle readers. If the members of a class donot understand--if those directly addressed fail to listen, orlistening, fail to recognise a power in the voice--surely the faultlies with the speaker, who, having attempted to secure their attentionand enlighten their understandings, has failed in the attempt? Themathematician who is without value to mathematicians, the thinker whois obscure or meaningless to thinkers, the dramatist who fails to movethe pit, may be wise, may be eminent, but as an author he has failed. He attempted to make his wisdom and his power operate on the minds ofothers. He has missed his mark. MARGARITAS ANTE PORCOS! is the soothingmaxim of a disappointed self-love. But we, who look on, may sometimesdoubt whether they WERE pearls thus ineffectually thrown; and alwaysdoubt the judiciousness of strewing pearls before swine. The prosperityof a book lies in the minds of readers. Public knowledge and publictaste fluctuate; and there come times when works which were oncecapable of instructing and delighting thousands lose their power, andworks, before neglected, emerge into renown. A small minority to whomthese works appealed has gradually become a large minority, and in theevolution of opinion will perhaps become the majority. No man canpretend to say that the work neglected today will not be a householdword tomorrow; or that the pride and glory of our age will not becovered with cobwebs on the bookshelves of our children. Those worksalone can have enduring success which successfully appeal to what ispermanent in human nature--which, while suiting the taste of the day, contain truths and beauty deeper than the opinions and tastes of theday; but even temperary success implies a certain temporary fitness. InHomer, Sophocles, Dante, Shakspeare, Cervantes, we are made aware ofmuch that no longer accords with the wisdom or the taste of ourday--temporary and immature expressions of fluctuating opinions--but weare also aware of much that is both true and noble now, and will be sofor ever. 

It is only posterity that can decide whether the success or failureshall be enduring; for it is only posterity that can reveal whether therelation now existing between the work and the public mind is or is notliable to fluctuation. Yet no man really writes for posterity; no manought to do so. 

"Wer machte denn der Mitwelt Spass?"

("Who is to amuse the present?") asks the wise Merry Andrew inFAUST. We must leave posterity to choose its own idols. There is, however, this chance in favour of any work which has once achievedsuccess, that what has pleased one generation may please another, because it may be based upon a truth or beauty which cannot die; andthere is this chance against any work which has once failed, that itsunfitness may be owing to some falsehood or imperfection which cannotlive. 

III. 

In urging all writers to be steadfast in reliance on the ultimatevictory of excellence, we should no less strenuously urge upon them tobeware of the intemperate arrogance which attributes failure to adegraded condition of the public mind. The instinct which leads theworld to worship success is not dangerous. The book which succeedsaccomplishes its aim. The book which fails may have many excellencies, but they must have been misdirected. Let us, however, understand whatis meant by failure. From want of a clear recognition of this meaning, many a serious writer has been made bitter by the reflection thatshallow, feeble works have found large audiences, whereas his own workhas not paid the printing expenses. He forgets that the readers whofound instruction and amusement in the shallow books could have foundnone in his book, because he had not the art of making his ideasintelligible and attractive to them, or had not duly considered whatfood was assimilable by their minds. It is idle to write inhieroglyphics for the mass when only priests can read the sacredsymbols. 

No one, it is hoped, will suppose that by what is here said Icountenance the notion which is held by some authors--a notion implyingeither arrogant self-sufficiency or mercenary servility--that tosucceed, a man should write down to the public. Quite the reverse. Tosucceed, a man should write up to his ideal. He should do his verybest; certain that the very best will still fall short of what thepublic can appreciate. He will only degrade his own mind by puttingforth works avowedly of inferior quality; and will find himself greatlysurpassed by writers whose inferior workmanship has nevertheless theindefinable aspect of being the best they can produce. The man ofcommon mind is more directly in sympathy with the vulgar public, andcan speak to it more intelligibly, than any one who is condescending toit. If you feel yourself to be above the mass, speak so as to raise themass to the height of your argument. It may be that the interval is toogreat. It may be that the nature of your arguments is such as to demandfrom the audience an intellectual preparation, and a habit ofconcentrated continuity of thought, which cannot be expected from amiscellaneous assembly. The scholarship of a Scaliger or the philosophyof a Kant will obviously require an audience of scholars andphilosophers. And in cases where the nature of the work limits theclass of readers, no man should complain if the readers he does notaddress pass him by to follow another. He will not allure these bywriting down to them; or if he allure them, he will lose those whoproperly constitute his real audience. 

A writer misdirects his talent if he lowers his standard of excellence. Whatever he can do best let him do that, certain of reward inproportion to his excellence. The reward is not always measurable bythe number of copies sold; that simply measures the extent of hispublic. It may prove that he has stirred the hearts and enlightened theminds of many. It may also prove, as Johnson says, "that his nonsensesuits their nonsense. " The real reward of Literature is in the sympathyof congenial minds, and is precious in proportion to the elevation ofthose minds, and the gravity with which such sympathy moves: theadmiration of a mathematician for the MECANIQUE CELESTE, for example, is altogether higher in kind than the admiration of a novel reader forthe last "delightful story. " And what should we think of Laplace if hewere made bitter by the wider popularity of Dumas? Would he forfeit theadmiration of one philosopher for that of a thousand novel readers?

To ask this question is to answer it; yet daily experience tells usthat not only in lowering his standard, but in running after apopularity incompatible with the nature of his talent, does many awriter forfeit his chance of success. The novel and the drama, byreason of their commanding influence over a large audience, oftenseduce writers to forsake the path on which they could labour with somesuccess, but on which they know that only a very small audience can befound; as if it were quantity more than quality, noise rather thanappreciation, which their mistaken desires sought. Unhappily for them, they lose the substance, and only snap at the shadow. The audience maybe large, but it will not listen to them. The novel may be more popularand more lucrative, when successful, than the history or the essay; butto make it popular and lucrative the writer needs a special talent, andthis, as was before hinted, seems frequently forgotten by those whotake to novel writing. Nay, it is often forgotten by the critics; theybeing, in general, men without the special talent themselves, set nogreat value on it. They imagine that Invention may be replaced byculture, and that clever "writing" will do duty for dramatic power. They applaud the "drawing" of a character, which drawing turns out oninspection to be little more than an epigrammatic enumeration ofparticularities, the character thus "drawn" losing all individuality assoon as speech and action are called upon. Indeed, there are twomistakes very common among reviewers: one is the overvaluation of whatis usually considered as literary ability ("brilliant writing" it iscalled; "literary tinsel" would be more descriptive) to the prejudiceof Invention and Individuality; the other is the overvaluation of whatthey call "solid acquirements, " which really mean no more than anacquaintance with the classics. As a fact, literary ability and solidacquirements are to be had in abundance; invention, humour, andoriginality are excessively rare. It may be a painful reflection tothose who, having had a great deal of money spent on their education, and having given a great deal of time to their solid aquirements, nowsee genius and original power of all kinds more esteemed than theirlearning; but they should reflect that what is learning now is only thediffused form of what was once invention. "Solid acquirement" is thegenius of wits become the wisdom of reviewers. 

IV. 

Authors are styled an irritable race, and justly, if the epithet beunderstood in its physiological rather than its moral sense. Thisirritability, which responds to the slightest stimulus, leads to muchof the misdirection of talent we have been considering. The greatnessof an author consists in having a mind extremely irritable, and at thesame time steadfastly imperial:--irritable that no stimulus may beinoperative, even in its most evanescent solicitations; imperial, thatno solicitation may divert him from his deliberately chosen aims. Amagisterial subjection of all dispersive influences, a concentration ofthe mind upon the thing that has to be done, and a proud renunciationof all means of effect which do not spontaneously connect themselveswith it--these are the rare qualities which mark out the man of genius. In men of lesser calibre the mind is more constantly open todetermination from extrinsic influences. Their movement is notself-determined, self-sustained. In men of still smaller calibre themind is entirely determined by extrinsic influences. They are promptedto write poems by no musical instinct, but simply because great poemshave enchanted the world. They resolve to write novels upon thevulgarest provocations: they see novels bringing money and fame; theythink there is no difficulty in the art. The novel will afford them anopportunity of bringing in a variety of scattered details; scraps ofknowledge too scanty for an essay, and scraps of experience too meagrefor independent publication. Others, again, attempt histories, or worksof popular philosophy and science; not because they have any specialstores of knowledge, or because any striking novelty of conceptionurges them to use up old material in a new shape, but simply becausethey have just been reading with interest some work of history orscience, and are impatient to impart to others the knowledge they havejust acquired for themselves. Generally it may be remarked that thepride which follows the sudden emancipation of the mind from ignoranceof any subject, is accompanied by a feeling that all the world must bein the state of darkness from which we have ourselves emerged. It isthe knowledge learned yesterday which is most freely imparted today. 

We need not insist on the obvious fact of there being more irritabilitythan mastery, more imitation than creation, more echoes than voices inthe world of Literature. Good writers are of necessity rare. But theranks would be less crowded with incompetent writers if men of realability were not so often misdirected in their aims. My object is todecree, if possible, the Principles of Success--not to supply recipesfor absent power, but to expound the laws through which power isefficient, and to explain the causes which determine success in exactproportion to the native power on the one hand, and to the state ofpublic opinion on the other. 

The laws of Literature may be grouped under three heads. Perhaps wemight say they are three forms of one principle. They are founded onour threefold nature--intellectual, moral, and aesthetic. 

The intellectual form is the PRINCIPLE OF VISION. 

The moral form is the PRINCIPLE OF SINCERITY. 

The aesthetic form is the PRINCIPLE OF BEAUTY. 

It will be my endeavour to give definite significance, in succeedingchapters, to these expressions, which, standing unexplained andunillustrated, probably convey very little meaning. We shall then seethat every work, no matter what its subject-matter, necessarilyinvolves these three principles in varying degrees; and that itssuccess is always strictly in accordance with its conformity to theguidance of these principles. 

Unless a writer has what, for the sake of brevity, I have calledVision, enabling him to see clearly the facts or ideas, the objects orrelations, which he places before us for our own instruction, his workmust obviously be defective. He must see clearly if we are to seeclearly. Unless a writer has Sincerity, urging him to place before uswhat he sees and believes as he sees and believes it, the defectiveearnestness of his presentation will cause an imperfect sympathy in us. He must believe what he says, or we shall not believe it. Insincerityis always weakness; sincerity even in error is strength. This is not soobvious a principle as the first; at any rate it is one more profoundlydisregarded by writers. 

Finally, unless the writer has grace--the principle of Beauty I havenamed it--enabling him to give some aesthetic charm to hispresentation, were it only the charm of well-arranged material, andwell-constructed sentences, a charm sensible through all theintricacies of COMPOSITION and of STYLE, he will not do justice to hispowers, and will either fail to make his work acceptable, or will veryseriously limit its success. The amount of influence issuing from thisprinciple of Beauty will, of course, be greatly determined by the moreor less aesthetic nature of the work. 

Books minister to our knowledge, to our guidance, and to our delight, by their truth, their uprightness, and their art. Truth is the aim ofLiterature. Sincerity is moral truth. Beauty is aesthetic truth. Howrigorously these three principles determine the success of all workswhatever, and how rigorously every departure from them, no matter howslight, determines proportional failure, with the inexorable sequenceof a physical law, it will be my endeavour to prove in the chapterswhich are to follow. 

EDITOR. 

CHAPTER II

THE PRINCIPLE OF VISION. 

All good Literature rests primarily on insight. All bad Literaturerests upon imperfect insight, or upon imitation, which may be definedas seeing at second-hand. 

There are men of clear insight who never become authors: some, becauseno sufficient solicitation from internal or external impulses makesthem bond their energies to the task of giving literary expression totheir thoughts; and some, because they lack the adequate powers ofliterary expression. But no man, be his felicity and facility ofexpression what they may, ever produces good Literature unless he seesfor himself, and sees clearly. It is the very claim and purpose ofLiterature to show others what they failed to see. Unless a man seesthis clearly for himself how can he show it to others?

Literature delivers tidings of the world within and the world without. It tells of the facts which have been witnessed, reproduces theemotions which have been felt. It places before the reader symbolswhich represent the absent facts, or the relations of these to otherfacts; and by the vivid presentation of the symbols of emotion kindlesthe emotive sympathy of readers. The art of selecting the fittingsymbols, and of so arranging them as to be intelligible and kindling, distinguishes the great writer from the great thinker; it is an artwhich also relies on clear insight. 

The value of the tidings brought by Literature is determined by theirauthenticity. At all times the air is noisy with rumours, but the realbusiness of life is transacted on clear insight and authentic speech. False tidings and idle rumours may for an hour clamorously usurpattention, because they are believed to be true; but the cheat is soondiscovered, and the rumour dies. In like manner Literature which isunauthentic may succeed as long as it is believed to be true: that is, so long as our intellects have not discovered the falseness of itspretensions, and our feelings have not disowned sympathy with itsexpressions. These may be truisms, but they are constantly disregarded. Writers have seldom any steadfast conviction that it is of primarynecessity for them to deliver tidings about what they themselves haveseen and felt. Perhaps their intimate consciousness assures them thatwhat they have seen or felt is neither new nor important. It may not benew, it may not be intrinsically important; nevertheless, if authentic, it has its value, and a far greater value than anything reported bythem at second-hand. We cannot demand from every man that he haveunusual depth of insight or exceptional experience; but we demand ofhim that he give us of his best, and his best cannot be another's. Thefacts seen through the vision of another, reported on the witness ofanother, may be true, but the reporter cannot vouch for them. Let theoriginal observer speak for himself. Otherwise only rumours are setafloat. If you have never seen an acid combine with a base you cannotinstructively speak to me of salts; and this, of course, is true in amore emphatic degree with reference to more complex matters. 

Personal experience is the basis of all real Literature. The writermust have thought the thoughts, seen the objects (with bodily or mentalvision), and felt the feelings; otherwise he can have no power over us. Importance does not depend on rarity so much as on authenticity. Themassacre of a distant tribe, which is heard through the report ofothers, falls far below the heart-shaking effect of a murder committedin our presence. Our sympathy with the unknown victim may originallyhave been as torpid as that with the unknown tribe; but it has beenkindled by the swift and vivid suggestions of details visible to us asspectators; whereas a severe and continuous effort of imagination isneeded to call up the kindling suggestions of the distant massacre. 

So little do writers appreciate the importance of direct vision andexperience, that they are in general silent about what they themselveshave seen and felt, copious in reporting the experience of others. Nay, they are urgently prompted to say what they know others think, and whatconsequently they themselves may be expected to think. They are as ifdismayed at their own individuality, and suppress all traces of it inorder to catch the general tone. Such men may, indeed, be of service inthe ordinary commerce of Literature as distributors. All I wish topoint out is that they are distributors, not producers. The commercemay be served by second-hand reporters, no less than by original seers;but we must understand this service to be commercial and not literary. The common stock of knowledge gains from it no addition. The man whodetects a new fact, a new property in a familiar substance, adds to thescience of the age; but the man who expounds the whole system of theuniverse on the reports of others, unenlightened by new conceptions ofhis own, does not add a grain to the common store. Great writers mayall be known by their solicitude about authenticity. A common incident, a simple phenomenon, which has been a part of their experience, oftenundergoes what may be called "a transfiguration" in their souls, andissues in the form of Art; while many world-agitating events in whichthey have not been acters, or majestic phenomena of which they werenever spectators, are by them left to the unhesitating incompetence ofwriters who imagine that fine subjects make fine works. Either thegreat writer leaves such materials untouched, or he employs them as thevehicle of more cherished, because more authenticated tidings, --hepaints the ruin of an empire as the scenic background for his pictureof the distress of two simple hearts. The inferior writer, because helays no emphasis on authenticity, cannot understand this avoidance ofimposing themes. Condemned by naive incapacity to be a reporter, andnot a seer, he hopes to shine by the reflected glory of his subjects. It is natural in him to mistake ambitious art for high art. He does notfeel that the best is the highest. 

I do not assert that inferior writers abstain from the familiar andtrivial. On the contrary, as imitators, they imitate everything whichgreat writers have shown to be sources of interest. But their bias istowards great subjects. They make no new ventures in the direction ofpersonal experience. They are silent on all that they have really seenfor themselves. Unable to see the deep significance of what is common, they spontaneously turn towards the uncommon. 

There is, at the present day, a fashion in Literature, and in Artgenerally, which is very deporable, and which may, on a superficialglance, appear at variance with what has just been said. The fashion isthat of coat-and-waistcoat realism, a creeping timidity of invention, moving almost exclusively amid scenes of drawing-room existence, withall the reticences and pettinesses of drawing-room conventions. Artistshave become photographers, and have turned the camera upon thevulgarities of life, instead of representing the more impassionedmovements of life. The majority of books and pictures are addressed toour lower faculties; they make no effort as they have no power to stirour deeper emotions by the contagion of great ideas. Little that makeslife noble and solemn is reflected in the Art of our day; to amuse alanguid audience seems its highest aim. Seeing this, some of my readersmay ask whether the artists have not been faithful to the law I haveexpounded, and chosen to paint the small things they have seen, ratherthan the great things they have not seen? The answer is simple. For themost part the artists have not painted what they have seen, but havebeen false and conventional in their pretended realism. And wheneverthey have painted truly, they have painted successfully. Theauthenticity of their work has given it all the value which in thenature of things such work could have. Titian's portrait of "The YoungMan with a Glove" is a great work of art, though not of great art. Itis infinitely higher than a portrait of Cromwell, by a painter unableto see into the great soul of Cromwell, and to make us see it; but itis infinitely lower than Titian's "Tribute Money, " "Peter the Martyr, "or the "Assumption. " Tennyson's "Northern Farmer" is incomparablygreater as a poem than Mr. Bailey's ambitious "Festus;" but the"Northern Farmer" is far below "Ulysses" or "Guinevere, " because movingon a lower level, and recording the facts of a lower life. 

Insight is the first condition of Art. Yet many a man who has neverbeen beyond his village will be silent about that which he knows well, and will fancy himself called upon to speak of the tropics or theAndes---on the reports of others. Never having seen a greater man thanthe parson and the squire and not having seen into them--he selectsCromwell and Plato, Raphael and Napoleon, as his models, in the vainbelief that these impressive personalities will make his workimpressive. Of course I am speaking figuratively. By "never having beenbeyond his village, " I understand a mental no less than topographicallimitation. The penetrating sympathy of genius will, even from avillage, traverse the whole world. What I mean is, that unless bypersonal experience, no matter through what avenues, a man has gainedclear insight into the facts of life, he cannot successfully place thembefore us; and whatever insight he has gained, be it of important or ofunimportant facts, will be of value if truly reproduced. No sunset isprecisely similar to another, no two souls are affected by it in aprecisely similar way. Thus may the commonest phenomenon have anovelty. To the eye that can read aright there is an infinite varietyeven in the most ordinary human being. But to the carelessindiscriminating eye all individuality is merged in a misty generality. Nature and men yield nothing new to such a mind. Of what avail is itfor a man to walk out into the tremulous mists of morning, to watch theslow sunset, and wait for the rising stars, if he can tell us nothingabout these but what others have already told us---if he feels nothingbut what others have already felt? Let a man look for himself and telltruly what he sees. We will listen to that. We must listen to it, forits very authenticity has a subtle power of compulsion. What othershave seen and felt we can learn better from their own lips. 

II. 

I have not yet explained in any formal manner what the nature of thatinsight is which constitutes what I have named the Principle of Vision;although doubtless the reader has gathered its meaning from the remarksalready made. For the sake of future applications of the principle tothe various questions of philosophical criticism which must arise inthe course of this inquiry, it may be needful here to explain (as Ihave already explained elsewhere) how the chief intellectualoperations--Perception, Inference, Reasoning, and Imagination--may beviewed as so many forms of mental vision. 

Perception, as distinguished from Sensation, is the presentation beforeConsciousness of the details which once were present in conjunctionwith the object at this moment affecting Sense. These details areinferred to be still in conjunction with the object, although notrevealed to Sense. Thus when an apple is perceived by me, who merelysee it, all that Sense reports is of a certain coloured surface: theroundness, the firmness, the fragrance, and the taste of the apple arenot present to Sense, but are made present to Consciousness by the actof Perception. The eye sees a certain coloured surface; the mind seesat the same instant many other co-existent but unapparent facts--itreinstates in their due order these unapparent facts. Were it not forthis mental vision supplying the deficiencies of ocular vision, thecoloured surface would be an enigma. But the suggestion of Senserapidly recalls the experiences previously associated with the object. The apparent facts disclose the facts that are unapparent. 

Inference is only a higher form of the same process. We look from thewindow, see the dripping leaves and the wet ground, and infer that rainhas fallen. It is on inferences of this kind that all knowledgedepends. The extension of the known to the unknown, of the apparent tothe unapparent, gives us Science. Except in the grandeur of its sweep, the mind pursues the same course in the interpretation of geologicalfacts as in the interpretation of the ordinary incidents of dailyexperience. To read the pages of the great Stone Book, and to perceivefrom the wet streets that rain has recently fallen, are forms of thesame intellectual process. In the one case the inference traversesimmeasurable spaces of time, connecting the apparent facts with causes(unapparent facts) similar to those which have been associated inexperience with such results; in the other case the inference connectswet streets and swollen gutters with causes which have been associatedin experience with such results. Let the inference span with its mightyarch a myriad of years, or link together the events of a few minutes, in each case the arch rises from the ground of familiar facts, andreaches an antecedent which is known to be a cause capable of producingthem. 

The mental vision by which in Perception we see the unapparentdetails---i. E, by which sensations formerly co-existing with the onenow affecting us are reinstated under the form of ideas which REPRESENTthe objects--is a process implied in all Ratiocination, which alsopresents an IDEAL SERIES, such as would be a series of sensations, ifthe objects themselves were before us. A chain of reasoning is a chainof inferences: IDEAL presentations of objects and relations notapparent to Sense, or not presentable to Sense. Could we realise allthe links in this chain, by placing the objects in their actual orderas a VISIBLE series, the reasoning would be a succession ofperceptions. Thus the path of a planet is seen by reason to be anellipse. It would be perceived as a fact, if we were in a properposition and endowed with the requisite means of following the planetin its course; but not having this power, we are reduced to infer theunapparent points in its course from the points which are apparent. Wesee them mentally. Correct reasoning is the ideal assemblage of objectsin their actual order of co-existence and succession. It is seeing withthe mind's eye. False reasoning is owing to some misplacement of theorder of objects, or to the omission of some links in the chain, or tothe introduction of objects not properly belonging to the series. It isdistorted or defective vision. The terrified traveller sees ahighwayman in what is really a sign-post in the twilight; and in thetwilight of knowledge, the terrified philosopher sees a Pestilenceforeshadowed by an eclipse. 

Let attention also be called to one great source of error, which isalso a great source of power, namely, that much of our thinking iscarried on by signs instead of images. We use words as signs ofobjects; these suffice to carry on the train of inference, when veryfew images of the objects are called up. Let any one attend to histhoughts and he will be surprised to find how rare and indistinct ingeneral are the images of objects which arise before his mind. If hesays "I shall take a cab and get to the railway by the shortest cut, "it is ten to one that he forms no image of cab or railway, and but avery vague image of the streets through which the shortest cut willlead. Imaginative minds see images where ordinary minds see nothing butsigns: this is a source of power; but it is also a source of weakness;for in the practical affairs of life, and in the theoreticalinvestigations of philosophy, a too active imagination is apt todistract the attention and scatter the energies of the mind. 

In complex trains of thought signs are indispensable. The images, whencalled up, are only vanishing suggestions: they disappear before theyare more than half formed. And yet it is because signs are thussubstituted for images (paper transacting the business of money) thatwe are so easily imposed upon by verbal fallacies and meaninglessphrases. A scientific man of some eminence was once taken in by a wag, who gravely asked him whether he had read Bunsen's paper on theMALLEABILITY of light. He confessed that he had not read it: "Bunsensent it to me, but I've not had time to look into it. "

The degree in which each mind habitually substitutes signs for imageswill be, CETERIS PARIBUS, the degree in which it is liable to error. This is not contradicted by the fact that mathematical, astronomical, and physical reasonings may, when complex, be carried on moresuecessfully by the employment of signs; because in these cases thesigns themselves accurately represent the abstractness of therelations. Such sciences deal only with relations, and not withobjects; hence greater simplification ensures greater accuracy. But nosooner do we quit this sphere of abstractions to enter that of concretethings, than the use of symbols becomes a source of weakness. Vigorousand effective minds habitually deal with concrete images. This isnotably the case with poets and great literates. Their vision is keenerthan that of other men. However rapid and remote their flight ofthought, it is a succession of images, not of abstractions. The detailswhich give significance, and which by us are seen vaguely as through avanishing mist, are by them seen in sharp outlines. The image which tous is a mere suggestion, is to them almost as vivid as the object. Andit is because they see vividly that they can paint effectively. 

Most readers will recognise this to be true of poets, but will doubtits application to philosophers, because imperfect psychology andunscientific criticism have disguised the identity of intellectualprocesses until it has become a paradox to say that imagination is notless indispensable to the philosopher than to the poet. The paradoxfalls directly we restate the proposition thus: both poet andphilosopher draw their power from the energy of their mental vision--anenergy which disengages the mind from the somnolence of habit and fromthe pressure of obtrusive sensations. In general men are passive underSense and the routine of habitual inferences. They are unable to freethemselves from the importunities of the apparent facts and apparentrelations which solicit their attention; and when they make room forunapparent facts it is only for those which are familiar to theirminds. Hence they can see little more than what they have been taughtto see; they can only think what they have been taught to think. Forindependent vision, and original conception, we must go to children andmen of genius. The spontaneity of the one is the power of the other. Ordinary men live among marvels and feel no wonder, grow familiar withobjects and learn nothing new about them. Then comes an independentmind which sees; and it surprises us to find how servile we have beento habit and opinion, how blind to what we also might have seen, had weused our eyes. The link, so long hidden, has now been made visible tous. We hasten to make it visible to others. But the flash of lightwhich revealed that obscured object does not help us to discoverothers. Darkness still conceals much that we do not even suspect. Wecontinue our routine. We always think our views correct and complete;if we thought otherwise they would cease to be our views; and when theman of keener insight discloses our error, and reveals relationshitherto unsuspected, we learn to see with his eyes and exclaim: "Nowsurely we have got the truth. "

III. 

A child is playing with a piece of paper and brings it near the flameof a candle; another child looks on. Both are completely absorbed bythe objects, both are ignorant or oblivious of the relation between thecombustible object and the flame: a relation which becomes apparentonly when the paper is alight. What is called the thoughtlessness ofchildhood prevents their seeing this unapparent fact; it is a factwhich has not been sufficiently impressed upon their experience so asto form an indissoluble element in their conception of the two injuxtaposition. Whereas in the mind of the nurse this relation is sovividly impressed that no sooner does the paper approach the flame thanthe unapparent fact becomes almost as visible as the objects, and awarning is given. She sees what the children do not, or cannot see. Ithas become part of her organised experience. 

The superiority of one mind over another depends on the rapidity withwhich experiences are thus organised. The superiority may be general orspecial: it may manifest itself in a power of assimilating very variousexperiences, so as to have manifold relations familiar to it, or in apower of assimilating very special relations, so as to constitute adistinctive aptitude for one branch of art or science. The experiencewhich is thus organised must of course have been originally a directobject of consciousness, either as an impressive fact or impressiveinference. Unless the paper had been seen to burn, no one could knowthat contact with flame would consume it. By a vivid remembrance theexperience of the past is made available to the present, so that we donot need actually to burn paper once more, --we see the relationmentally. In like manner Newton did not need to go through thedemonstrations of many complex problems, they flashed upon him as heread the propositions; they were seen by him in that rapid glance, asthey would have been made visible through the slower process ofdemonstration. A good chemist does not need to test many a propositionby bringing actual gases or acids into operation, and seeing theresult; he FORESEES the result: his mental vision of the objects andtheir properties is so keen, his experience is so organised, that theresult which would be visible in an experiment, is visible to him in anintuition. A fine poet has no need of the actual presence of men andwomen under the fluctuating impatience of emotion, or under thesteadfast hopelessness of grief; he needs no setting sun before hiswindow, under it no sullen sea. These are all visible, and theirfluctuations are visible. He sees the quivering lip, the agitated soul;he hears the aching cry, and the dreary wash of waves upon the beach. 

The writer who pretends to instruct us should first assure himself thathe has clearer vision of the things he speaks of, --knows them and theirqualities, if not better than we, at least with some distinctiveknowledge. Otherwise he should announce himself as a mere echo, a middleman, a distributor. Our need is for more light. This can begiven only by an independent seer who

"Lends a precious seeing to the eye. "

All great authors are seers. "Perhaps if we should meet Shakspeare, "says Emerson, "we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority: no, but of great equality; only he possessed a strange skill of using, ofclassifying his facts, which we lacked. For, notwithstanding our utterincapacity to preduce anything like HAMLET or OTHELLO, we see theperfect reception this wit and immense knowledge of life and liquideloquence find in us all. " This aggrandisement of our common staturerests on questionable ground. If our capacity of being moved byShakspeare discloses a community, our incapacity of producing HAMLET noless discloses our inferiority. It is certain that could we meetShakspeare we should find him strikingly like ourselves---with the samefaculties, the same sensibilities, though not in the same degree. Thesecret of his power over us lies, of course, in our having the capacityto appreciate him. Yet we seeing him in the unimpassioned moods ofdaily life, it is more than probable that we should see nothing in himbut what was ordinary; nay, in some qualities he would seem inferior. Heroes require a perspective. They are men who look superhuman onlywhen elevated on the pedestals of their achievements. In ordinary lifethey look like ordinary men; not that they are of the common mould, butseem so because their uncommon qualities are not then called forth. Superiority requires an occasion. The common man is helpless in anemergency: assailed by contradictory suggestions, or confused by hisincapacity, he cannot see his way. The hour of emergency finds a herocalm and strong, and strong because calm and clear-sighted; he seeswhat can be done, and does it. This is often a thing of greatsimplicity, so that we marvel others did not see it. Now it has beendone, and proved successful, many underrate its value, thinking thatthey also would have done precisely the same thing. The world is morejust. It refuses to men unassailed by the difficulties of a situationthe glory they have not earned. The world knows how easy most thingsappear when they have once been done. We can all make the egg stand onend after Columbus. 

Shakspeare, then, would probably not impress us with a sense of ourinferiority if we were to meet him tomorrow. Most likely we should bebitterly disappointed; because, having formed our conception of him asthe man who wrote HAMLET and OTHELLO we forget that these were not thepreducts of his ordinary moods, but the manifestations of his power atwhite heat. In ordinary moods he must be very much as ordinary men, andit is in these we meet him. How notorious is the astonishment offriends and associates when any man's achievements suddenly emerge intorenown. "They could never have believed it. " Why should they? Knowinghim only as one of their circle, and not being gifted with thepenetration which discerns a latent energy, but only with the visionwhich discerns apparent results, they are taken by surprise. Nay, sobiased are we by superficial judgments, that we frequently ignore thepalpable fact of achieved excellence simply because we cannot reconcileit with our judgment of the man who achieved it. The deed has beendone, the work written, the picture painted; it is before the world, and the world is ringing with applause. There is no doubt whatever thatthe man whose name is in every mouth did the work; but because ourpersonal impressions of him do not correspond with our conceptions of apowerful man, we abate or withdraw our admiration, and attribute hissuccess to lucky accident. This blear-eyed, taciturn, timid man, whoseknowledge of many things is manifestly imperfect, whose inaptitude formany things is apparent, can HE be the creator of such glorious works?Can HE be the large and patient thinker, the delicate humourist, theimpassioned poet? Nature seems to have answered this question for us;yet so little are we inclined to accept Nature's emphatic testimony onthis point, that few of us ever see without disappointment the manwhose works have revealed his greatness. 

It stands to reason that we should not rightly appreciate Shakspeare ifwe were to meet him simply because we should meet him as an ordinaryman, and not as the author of HAMLET. Yet if we had a keen insight weshould detect even in his quiet talk the marks of an original mind. Wecould not, of course, divine, without evidence, how deep and clear hisinsight, how mighty his power over grand representative symbols, howprodigal his genius: these only could appear on adequate occasions. Butwe should notice that he had an independent way of looking at things. He would constantly bring before us some latent fact, some unsuspectedrelation, some resemblance between dissimilar things. We should feelthat his utterances were not echoes. If therefore, in these moments ofequable serenity, his mind glancing over trivial things saw them withgreat clearness, we might infer that in moments of intense activity hismind gazing steadfastly on important things, would see wonderfulvisions, where to us all was vague and shifting. During our quiet walkwith him across the fields he said little, or little that wasmemorable; but his eye was taking in the varying forms and relations ofobjects, and slowly feeding his mind with images. The common hedge-row, the gurgling brook, the waving corn, the shifting cloud-architecture, and the sloping uplands, have been seen by us a thousand times, butthey show us nothing new; they have been seen by him a thousand times, and each time with fresh interest, and fresh discovery. If he describethat walk he will surprise us with revelations: we can then andthereafter see all that he points out; but we needed his vision todirect our own. And it is one of the incalculable influences of poetrythat each new revelation is an education of the eye and the feelings. We learn to see and feel Nature in a far clearer and profounder way, now that we have been taught to look by poets. The incuriousunimpassioned gaze of the Alpine peasant on the scenes whichmysteriously and profoundly affect the cultivated tourist, is the gazeof one who has never been taught to look. The greater sensibility ofeducated Europeans to influences which left even the poetic Greeksunmoved, is due to the directing vision of successive poets. 

The great difficulty which besets us all--Shakspeares and others, butShakspeares less than others---is the difficulty of disengaging themind from the thraldom of sensation and habit, and escaping from thepressure of objects immediately present, or of ideas which naturallyemerge, linked together as they are by old associations. We have to seeanew, to think anew. It requires great vigour to escape from the oldand spontaneously recurrent trains of thought. And as this vigour isnative, not acquired, my readers may, perhaps, urge the futility ofexpounding with so much pains a principle of success in Literaturewhich, however indispensable, must be useless as a guide; they mayobject that although good Literature rests on insight, there is nothingto be gained by saying "unless a man have the requisite insight he willnot succeed. " But there is something to be gained. In the first place, this is an analytical inquiry into the conditions of success: it aimsat discriminating the leading principles which inevitably determinesuccess. In the second place, supposing our analysis of the conditionsto be correct, practical guidance must follow. We cannot, it is true, gain clearness of vision simply by recognising its necessity; but byrecognising its necessity we are taught to seek for it as a primarycondition of success; we are forced to come to an understanding withourselves as to whether we have or have not a distinct vision of thething we speak of, whether we are seers or reporters, whether the ideasand feelings have been thought and felt by us as part and parcel of ourown individual experience, or have been echoed by us from the books andconversation of others? We can always ask, are we painting farm-housesor fairies because these are genuine visions of our own, or onlybecause farm-houses and fairies have been successfully painted byothers, and are poetic material?

The man who first saw an acid redden a vegetable-blue, had something tocommunicate; and the man who first saw (mentally) that all acids reddenvegetable-blues, had something to communicate. But no man can do thisagain. In the course of his teaching he may have frequently to reportthe fact; but this repetition is not of much value unless it can bemade to disclose some new relation. And so of other and more complexcases. Every sincere man can determine for himself whether he has anyauthentic tidings to communicate; and although no man can hope todiscover much that is actually new, he ought to assure himself thateven what is old in his work has been authenticated by his ownexperience. He should not even speak of acids reddening vegetable-bluesupon mere hearsay, unless he is speaking figuratively. All his factsshould have been verified by himself, all his ideas should have beenthought by himself. In proportion to the fulfilment of this conditionwill be his success; in proportion to its non-fulfilment, his failure. 

Literature in its vast extent includes writers of three differentclasses, and in speaking of success we must always be understood tomean the acceptance each writer gains in his own class; otherwise aflashy novelist might seem more successful than a profound poet; aclever compiler more successful than an original discoverer. 

The Primary Class is composed of the born seers--men who see forthemselves and who originate. These are poets, philosophers, discoverers. The Secondary Class is composed of men less puissant infaculty, but genuine also in their way, who travel along the pathsopened by the great originaters, and also point out many a side-pathand shorter cut. They reproduce and vary the materials furnished byothers, but they do this, not as echoes only, they authenticate theirtidings, they take care to see what the discoverers have taught them tosee, and in consequence of this clear vision they are enabled toarrange and modify the materials so as to produce new results. ThePrimary Class is composed of men of genius; the Secondary Class of menof talent. It not unfrequently happens, especially in philosophy andscience, that the man of talent may confer a lustre on the originalinvention; he takes it up a nugget and lays it down a coin. Finally, there is the largest class of all, comprising the Imitators in Art, andthe Compilers in Philosophy. These bring nothing to the general stock. They are sometimes (not often) useful; but it is as cornfactors, not ascorn-growers. They sometimes do good service by distributing knowledgewhere otherwise it might never penetrate; but in general their work ismore hurtful than beneficial: hurtful, because it is essentially badwork, being insincere work, and because it stands in the way of betterwork. 

Even among Imitaters and Compilers there are almost infinite degrees ofmerit and demerit: echoes of echoes reverberating echoes in endlesssuccession; compilations of all degrees of worth and worthlessness. But, as will be shown hereafter, even in this lower sphere the worth ofthe work is strictly proportional to the Vision, Sincerity, and Beauty;so that an imitator whose eye is keen for the forms he imitates, whosespeech is honest, and whose talent has grace, will by these veryvirtues rise almost to the Secondary Class, and will secure anhonourable success. 

I have as yet said but little, and that incidentally, of the partplayed by the Principle of Vision in Art. Many readers who will admitthe principle in Science and Philosophy, may hesitate in extending itto Art, which, as they conceive, draws its inspirations from theImagination. Properly understood there is no discrepancy between thetwo opinions; and in the next chapter I shall endeavour to show howImagination is only another form of this very Principle of Vision whichwe have been considering. 

EDITOR. 

CHAPTER III

OF VISION IN ART. 

There are many who will admit, without hesitation, that in Philosophywhat I have called the Principle of Vision holds an important rank, because the mind must necessarily err in its speculations unless itclearly sees facts and relations; but there are some who will hesitatebefore admitting the principle to a similar rank in Art, because, asthey conceive, Art is independent of the truth of facts, and is swayedby the autocratic power of Imagination. 

It is on this power that our attention should first be arrested; themore so because it is usually spoken of in vague rhapsodical language, with intimations of its being something peculiarly mysterious. Thereare few words more abused. The artist is called a creator, which in onesense he is; and his creations are said to be produced by processeswholly unallied to the creations of Philosophy, which they are not. Hence it is a paradox to speak of the "Principia, " as a creationdemanding severe and continuous exercise of the imagination; but it isonly a paradox to those who have never analysed the processes ofartistic and philosophic creation. 

I am far from desiring to innovate in language, or to raiseinterminable discussions respecting the terms in general use. Nevertheless we have here to deal with questions that lie deeper thanmere names. We have to examine processes, and trace, if possible, themethods of intellectual activity pursued in all branches of Literature;and we must not suffer our course to be obstructed by any confusion interms that can be cleared up. We may respect the demarcationsestablished by usage, but we must ascertain, if possible, thefundamental affinities. There is, for instance, a broad distinctionbetween Science and Art, which, so far from requiring to be effaced, requires to be emphasised: it is that in Science the paramount appealis to the Intellect---its purpose being instruction; in Art, theparamount appeal is to the Emotions--its purpose being pleasure. A workof Art must of course indirectly appeal to the Intellect, and a work ofScience will also indirectly appeal to the Feelings; nevertheless apoem on the stars and a treatise on astronomy have distinct aims anddistinct methods. But having recognised the broadly-marked differences, we are called upon to ascertain the underlying resemblances. Logic andImagination belong equally to both. It is only because men have beenattracted by the differences that they have overlooked the not lessimportant affinities. Imagination is an intellectual process common toPhilosophy and Art; but in each it is allied with different processes, and directed to different ends; and hence, although the "Principia"demanded an imagination of not less vivid and sustained power than wasdemanded by "Othello, " it would be very false psychology to infer thatthe mind of Newton was competent to the creation of "Othello, " or themind of Shakspeare capable of producing the "Principia. " They werespecifically different minds; their works were specifically different. But in both the imagination was intensely active. Newton had a mindpredominantly ratiocinative: its movement was spontaneously towards theabstract relations of things. Shakspeare had a mind predominantlyemotive, the intellect always moving in alliance with the feelings, andspontaneously fastening upon the concrete facts in preference to theirabstract relations. Their mental Vision was turned towards images ofdifferent orders, and it moved in alliance with different faculties;but this Vision was the cardinal quality of both. Dr. Johnson wasguilty of a surprising fallacy in saying that a great mathematicianmight also be a great poet: "Sir, a man can walk east as far as he canwalk west. " True, but mathematics and poetry do not differ as east andwest; and he would hardly assert that a man who could walk twenty milescould therefore swim that distance. 

The real state of the case is somewhat obscured by our observing thatmany men of science, and some even eminent as teachers and reporters, display but slender claims to any unusual vigour of imagination. Itmust be owned that they are often slightly dull; and in matters of Artare not unfrequently blockheads. Nay, they would themselves repel it asa slight if the epithet "imaginative" were applied to them; it wouldseem to impugn their gravity, to cast doubts upon their accuracy. Butsuch men are the cisterns, not the fountains, of Science. They relyupon the knowledge already organised; they do not bring accessions tothe common stock. They are not investigators, but imitators; they arenot discoverers--inventors. No man ever made a discovery (he may havestumbled on one) without the exercise of as much imagination as, employed in another direction and in alliance with other faculties, would have gone to the creation of a poem. Every one who has seriouslyinvestigated a novel question, who has really interrogated Nature witha view to a distinct answer, will bear me out in saying that itrequires intense and sustained effort of imagination. The relations ofsequence among the phenomena must be seen; they are hidden; they canonly be seen mentally; a thousand suggestions rise before the mind, butthey are recognised as old suggestions, or as inadequate to reveal whatis sought; the experiments by which the problem may be solved have tobe imagined; and to imagine a good experiment is as difficult as toinvent a good fable, for we must have distinctly PRESENT--clear mentalvision--the known qualities and relations of all the objects, and mustsee what will be the effect of introducing some new qualifying agent. If any one thinks this is easy, let him try it: the trial will teachhim a lesson respecting the methods of intellectual activity notwithout its use. Easy enough, indeed, is the ordinary practice ofexperiment, which is either a mere repetition or variation ofexperiments already devised (as ordinary story-tellers re-tell thestories of others), or else a haphazard, blundering way of bringingphenomena together, to see what will happen. To invent is anotherprocess. The discoverer and the poet are inventors; and they are sobecause their mental vision detects the unapparent, unsuspected facts, almost as vividly as ocular vision rests on the apparent and familiar. 

It is the special aim of Philosophy to discover and systematise theabstract relations of things; and for this purpose it is forced toallow the things themselves to drop out of sight, fixing attentionsolely on the quality immediately investigated, to the neglect of allother qualities. Thus the philosopher, having to appreciate the mass, density, refracting power, or chemical constitution of some object, finds he can best appreciate this by isolating it from every otherdetail. He abstracts this one quality from the complex bundle ofqualities which constitute the object, and he makes this one stand forthe whole. This is a necessary simplification. If all the qualitieswere equally present to his mind, his vision would be perplexed bytheir multiple suggestions. He may follow out the relations of each inturn, but he cannot follow them out together. 

The aim of the poet is very different. He wishes to kindle the emotionsby the suggestion of objects themselves; and for this purpose he mustpresent images of the objects rather than of any single quality. It istrue that he also must exercise a power of abstraction and selection, tie cannot without confusion present all the details. And it is herethat the fine selective instinct of the true artist shows itself, inknowing what details to present and what to omit. Observe this: theabstraction of the philosopher is meant to keep the object itself, withits perturbing suggestions, out of sight, allowing only one quality tofill the field of vision; whereas the abstraction of the poet is meantto bring the object itself into more vivid relief, to make it visibleby means of the selected qualities. In other words, the one aims atabstract symbols, the other at picturesque effects. The one can carryon his deductions by the aid of colourless signs, X or Y. The otherappeals to the emotions through the symbols which will most vividlyexpress the real objects in their relations to our sensibilities. 

Imagination is obviously active in both. From known facts thephilosopher infers the facts that are unapparent. He does so by aneffort of imagination (hypothesis) which has to be subjected toverification: he makes a mental picture of the unapparent fact, andthen sets about to prove that his picture does in some way correspondwith the reality. The correctness of his hypothesis and verificationmust depend on the clearness of his vision. Were all the qualities ofthings apparent to Sense, there would be no longer any mystery. Aglance would be Science. But only some of the facts are visible; and itis because we see little, that we have to imagine much. We see afeather rising in the air, and a quill, from the same bird, sinking tothe ground: these contradictory reports of sense lead the mind astray;or perhaps excite a desire to know the reason. We cannot see, --we mustimagine, --the unapparent facts. Many mental pictures may be formed, butto form the one which corresponds with the reality requires greatsagacity and a very clear vision of known facts. In trying to form thismental picture we remember that when the air is removed the featherfails as rapidly as the quill, and thus we see that the air is thecause of the feather's rising; we mentally see the air pushing underthe feather, and see it almost as plainly as if the air were a visiblemass thrusting the feather upwards. 

From a mistaken appreciation of the real process this would by few becalled an effort of Imagination. On the contrary some "wild hypothesis"would be lauded as imaginative in proportion as it departed from allsuggestion of experience, i. E. Real mental vision. To have imaginedthat the feather rose owing to its "specific lightness, " and that thequill fell owing to its "heaviness, " would to many appear a moredecided effort of the imaginative faculty. Whereas it is no effort ofthat faculty at all; it is simply naming differently the facts itpretends to explain. To imagine---to form an image--we must have thenumerous relations of things present to the mind, and see the objectsin their actual order. In this we are of course greatly aided by themass of organised experience, which allows us rapidly to estimate therelations of gravity or affinity just as we remember that fire burnsand that heated bodies expand. But be the aid great or small, and theresult victorious or disastrous, the imaginative process is always thesame. 

There is a slighter strain on the imagination of the poet, because ofhis greater freedom. He is not, like the philosopher, limited to thethings which are, or were. His vision includes things which might be, and things which never were. The philosopher is not entitled to assumethat Nature sympathises with man; he must prove the fact to be so if heintend making any use of it ;--we admit no deductions from unprovedassumptions. But the poet is at perfect liberty to assume this; andhaving done so, he paints what would be the manifestations of thissympathy. The naturalist who should describe a hippogriff would incurthe laughing scorn of Europe; but the poet feigns its existence, andall Europe is delighted when it rises with Astolfo in the air. We neverpause to ask the poet whether such an animal exists. He has seen it, and we see it with his eyes. Talking trees do not startle us in Virgiland Tennyson. Puck and Titania, Hamlet and Falstaff, are as true for usas Luther and Napoleon so long as we are in the realm of Art. We grantthe poet a free privilege because he will use it only for our pleasure. In Science pleasure is not an object, and we give no licence. 

Philosophy and Art both render the invisible visible by imagination. Where Sense observes two isolated objects, Imagination discloses tworelated objects. This relation is the nexus visible. We had not seen itbefore; it is apparent now. Where we should only see a calamity thepoet makes us see a tragedy. Where we could only see a sunrise heenables us to see

"Day like a mighty river flowing in. "

Imagination is not the exclusive appanage of artists, but belongs invarying degrees to all men. It is simply the power of forming images. Supplying the energy of Sense where Sense cannot reach, it brings intodistinctness the facts, obscure or occult, which are grouped round anobject or an idea, but which are not actually present to Sense. Thus, at the aspect of a windmill, the mind forms images of manycharacteristic facts relating to it; and the kind of images will dependvery much on the general disposition, or particular mood, of the mindaffected by the object: the painter, the poet, and the moralist willhave different images suggested by the presence of the windmill or itssymbol. There are indeed sluggish minds so incapable of self-evolvedactivity, and so dependent on the immediate suggestions of Sense, as tobe almost destitute of the power of forming distinct images beyond theimmediate circle of sensuous associations; and these are rightly namedunimaginative minds; but in all minds of energetic activity, groups andclusters of images, many of them representing remote relations, spontaneously present themselves in conjunction with objects or theirsymbols. It should, however, be borne in mind that Imagination can onlyrecall what Sense has previously impressed. No man imagines any detailof which he has not previously had direct or indirect experience. Objects as fictitious as mermaids and hippogriffs are made up from thegatherings of Sense. 

"Made up from the gatherings of Sense" is a phrase which may seem toimply some peculiar plastic power such as is claimed exclusively forartists: a power not of simple recollection, but of recollection andrecombination. Yet this power belongs also to philosophers. To combinethe half of a woman with the half of a fish, --to imagine the union asan existing organism, --is not really a different process from that ofcombining the experience of a chemical action with an electric action, and seeing that the two are one existing fact. When the poet hears thestorm-cloud muttering, and sees the moonlight sleeping on the bank, hetransfers his experience of human phenomena to the cloud and themoonlight: he personifies, draws Nature within the circle of emotion, and is called a poet. When the philosopher sees electricity in thestorm-cloud, and sees the sunlight stimulating vegetable growth, hetransfers his experience of physical phenomena to these objects, anddraws within the circle of Law phenomena which hitherto have beenunclassified. Obviously the imagination has been as active in the onecase as in the other; the DIFFERENTIA lying in the purposes of the two, and in the general constltution of the two minds. 

It has been noted that there is less strain on the imagination of thepoet; but even his greater freedom is not altogether disengaged fromthe necessity of verification; his images must have at least subjectivetruth; if they do not accurately correspond with objective realities, they must correspond with our sense of congruity. No poet is allowedthe licence of creating images inconsistent with our conceptions. If hesaid the moonlight burnt the bank, we should reject the image asuntrue, inconsistent with our conceptions of moonlight; whereas thegentle repose of the moonlight on the bank readily associates itselfwith images of sleep. 

The often mooted question, What is Imagination? thus receives a veryclear and definite answer. It is the power of forming images; itreinstates, in a visible group, those objects which are invisible, either from absence or from imperfection of our senses. That is itsgeneric character. Its specific character, which marks it off fromMemory, and which is derived from the powers of selection andrecombination, will be expounded further on. Here I only touch upon itschief characteristic, in order to disengage the term from thatmysteriousness which writers have usually assigned to it, therebyrendering philosophic criticism impossible. Thus disengaged it may beused with more certainty in an attempt to estimate the imaginativepower of various works. 

Hitherto the amount of that power has been too frequently estimatedaccording to the extent of DEPARTURE from ordinary experience in theimages selected. Nineteen out of twenty would unhesitatingly declarethat a hippogriff was a greater effort of imagination than awell-conceived human character; a Peri than a woman; Puck or Titaniathan Falstaff or Imogen. A description of Paradise extremely unlike anyknown garden must, it is thought, necessarily be more imaginative thanthe description of a quiet rural nook. It may be more imaginative; itmay be less so. All depends upon the mind of the poet. To suppose thatit must, because of its departure from ordinary experience, is aserious error. The muscular effort required to draw a cheque for athousand pounds might as reasonably be thought greater than thatrequired for a cheque of five pounds; and much as the one cheque seemsto surpass the other in value, the result of presenting both to thebankers may show that the more modest cheque is worth its full fivepounds, whereas the other is only so much waste paper. The descriptionof Paradise may be a glittering farrago; the description of thelandscape may be full of sweet rural images: the one having a glare ofgaslight and Vauxhall splendour; the other having the scent of new-mownhay. 

A work is imaginative in virtue of the power of its images over ouremotions; not in virtue of any rarity or surprisingness in the imagesthemselves. A Madonna and Child by Fra Angelico is more powerful overour emotions than a Crucifixion by a vulgar artist; a beggar-boy byMurillo is more imaginative than an Assumption by the same painter; butthe Assumption by Titian displays far greater imagination than elther. We must guard against the natural tendency to attribute to the artistwhat is entirely due to accidental conditions. A tropical scene, luxuriant with tangled overgrowth and impressive in the grandeur of itsphenomena, may more decisively arrest our attention than an Englishlandscape with its green corn lands and plenteous homesteads. But thissuperiority of interest is no proof of the artist's superiorimagination; and by a spectator familiar with the tropics, greaterinterest may be felt in the English landscape, because its images maymore forcibly arrest his attentlon by their novelty. And were this notso, were the inalienable impressiveness of tropical scenery always togive the poet who described it a superiority in effect, this would notprove the superiority of his imagination. For either he has beenfamiliar with such scenes, and imagines them just as the other poetimagines his English landscape---by an effort of mental vision, callingup the absent objects; or he has merely read the descriptions ofothers, and from these makes up his picture. It is the same with hisrival, who also recalls and recombines. Foolish critics often betraytheir ignorance by saying that a painter or a writer "only copies whathe has seen, or puts down what he has known. " They forget that no manimagines what he has not seen or known, and that it is in the SELECTIONOF THE CHARACTERISTIC DETAILS that the artistic power is manifested. Those who suppose that familiarity with scenes or characters enables apainter or a novelist to "copy" them with artistic effect, forget thewell-known fact that the vast majority of men are painfully incompetentto avail themselves of this familiarity, and cannot form vivid pictureseven to themselves of scenes in which they pass their daily lives; andif they could imagine these, they would need the delicate selectiveinstinct to guide them in the admission and omission of details, aswell as in the grouping of the images. Let any one try to "copy" thewife or brother he knows so well, --to make a human image which shallspeak and act so as to impress strangers with a belief in itstruth, --and he will then see that the much-despised reliance on actualexperience is not the mechanical procedure it is believed to be. WhenScott drew Saladin and Ceaur de Lion he did not really display moreimaginative power than when he drew the Mucklebackits, although themajority of readers would suppose that the one demanded a great effortof imagination, whereas the other formed part of his familiarexperiences of Scottish life. The mistake here lies in confounding thesources from which the materials were derived with the plastic power offorming these materials into images. More conscious effort may havebeen devoted to the collection of the materials in the one case than inthe other, but that this has nothing to do with the imaginative poweremployed may readily be proved by an analysis of the intellectualprocesses of composition. Scott had often been in fishermen's cottagesand heard them talk; from the registered experience of a thousanddetails relating to the life of the poor, their feelings and theirthoughts, he gained that material upon which his imagination couldwork; in the case of Saladin and Ceaur de Lion he had to gain theseprincipally through books and his general experience of life; and theimages he formed--the vision he had of Mucklebackit and Saladin--mustbe set down to his artistic faculty, not to his experience or erudition. 

It has been well said by a very imaginative writer, that "when a poetfloats in the empyrean, and only takes a bird's-eye view of the earth, some people accept the mere fact of his soaring for sublimity, andmistake his dim vision of earth for proximity to heaven. " And in likemanner, when a thinker frees himself from all the trammels of fact, andpropounds a "bold hypothesis, " people mistake the vagabond erraticflights of guessing for a higher range of philosophic power. In truth, the imagination is most tasked when it has to paint pictures whichshall withstand the silent criticism of general experience, and toframe hypotheses which shall withstand the confrontation with facts. Icannot here enter into the interesting question of Realism and Idealismin Art, which must be debated in a future chapter; but I wish to callspecial attention to the psychological fact, that fairies and demons, remote as they are from experience, are not created by a more vigorouseffort of imagination than milk maids and poachers. The intensity ofvision in the artist and of vividness in his creations are the soletests of his imaginative power. 

II. 

If this brief exposition has carried the reader's assent, he willreadily apply the principle, and recognise that an artist produces aneffect in virtue of the distinctness with which he sees the objects herepresents, seeing them not vaguely as in vanishing apparitions, butsteadily, and in their most characteristic relations. To this Vision headds artistic skill with which to make us see. He may have clearconceptions, yet fail to make them clear to us: in this case he hasimagination, but is not an artist. Without clear Vision no skill canavail. Imperfect Vision necessitates imperfect representation; wordstake the place of ideas. 

In Young's "Night Thoughts" there are many examples of thePSEUDO-imaginative, betraying an utter want of steady Vision. Here isone:--

"His hand the good man fixes on the skies, And bids earth roll, nor feels the idle whirl. "

"Pause for a moment, " remarks a critic, "to realise the image, and themonstrous absurdity of a man's grasping the skies and hanginghabitually suspended there, while he contemptuously bids earth roll, warns you that no genuine feeling could have suggested so unnatural aconception. " [WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. Cxxxi. , p. 27]. It is obviousthat if Young had imagined the position he assigned to the good man hewould have seen its absurdity; instead of imagining, he allowed thevague transient suggestion of half-nascent images to shape themselvesin verse. 

Now compare with this a passage in which imagination is really active. Wordsworth recalls how--

" In November daysWhen vapours rolling down the valleys madeA lonely scene more lonesome; among the woodsAt noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, When by the margin of the trembling lakeBeneath the gloomy hills homeward I wentIn solitude, such intercourse was mine. "

There is nothing very grand or impressive in this passage, andtherefore it is a better illustration for my purpose. Note how happilythe one image, out of a thousand possible images by which Novembermight be characterised, is chosen to call up in us the feeling of thelonely scene; and with what delicate selection the calm of summernights, the "trembling lake" (an image in an epithet), and the gloomyhills, are brought before us. His boyhood might have furnished him witha hundred different pictures, each as distinct as this; the power isshown in selecting this one--painting it so vividly. He continues:--

"'Twas mine among the fields both day and nightAnd by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sunWas set, and, visible for many a mileThe cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy timeIt was indeed for all of us; for meIt was a time of rapture! Clear and loudThe village clock tolled six--I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horseThat cares not for his home. All shod with steelWe hissed along the polished ice, in gamesConfederate, imitative of the chaseAnd woodland pleasures--the resounding horn, The pack loud-chiming and the hunted hare. "

There is nothing very felicitous in these lines; yet even here thepoet, if languid, is never false. As he proceeds the vision brightens, and the verse becomes instinct with life:--

"So through the darkness and the cold we flewAnd not a voice was idle: with the dinSmitten, the precipices rang aloud;THE LEAFLESS TREES AND EVERY ICY CRAGTINKLED LIKE IRON; WHILE THE DISTANT HILLSINTO THE TUMULT SENT AN ALIEN SOUNDOF MELANCHOLY, not unnoticed while the starsEastward were sparkling clear, and in the westThe orange sky of evening died away. 

"Not seldom from the uproar I retiredInto a silent bay, or sportivelyGlanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, TO CUT ACROSS THE REFLEX OF A STAR;IMAGE THAT FLYING STILL BEFORE ME gleamedUpon the glassy plain: and oftentimeWhen we had given our bodies to the windAND ALL THE SHADOWY BANKS ON EITHER SIDECAME CREEPING THROUGH THE DARKNESS, spinning stillThe rapid line of motion, then at onceHave I reclining back upon my heelsStopped short; yet still the solitary cliffsWheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolledWith visible motion her diurnal round!Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watchedTill all was tranquil as a summer sea. "

Every poetical reader will feel delight in the accuracy with which thedetails are painted, and the marvellous clearness with which the wholescene is imagined, both in its objective and subjective relations, i. E. , both in the objects seen and the emotions they suggest. 

What the majority of modern verse writers call "imagery, " is not theproduct of imagination, but a restless pursuit of comparison, and a laxuse of language. Instead of presenting us with an image of the object, they present us with something which they tell us is like theobject---which it rarely is. The thing itself has no clear significanceto them, it is only a text for the display of their ingenuity. If, however, we turn from poetasters to poets, we see great accuracy indepicting the things themselves or their suggestions, so that we may becertain the things presented themselves in the field of the poet'svision, and were painted because seen. The images arose with suddenvivacity, or were detained long enough to enable their characters to beseized. It is this power of detention to which I would call particularnotice, because a valuable practical lesson may be learned through aproper estimate of it. If clear Vision be indispensable to success inArt, all means of securing that clearness should be sought. Now onemeans is that of detaining an image long enough before the mind toallow of its being seen in all its characteristics. The explanationNewton gave of his discovery of the great law, points in thisdirection; it was by always thinking of the subject, by keeping itconstantly before his mind, that he finally saw the truth. Artistsbrood over the chaos of their suggestions, and thus shape them intocreations. Try and form a picture in your own mind of your earlyskating experience. It may be that the scene only comes back upon youin shifting outlines, you recall the general facts, and some fewparticulars are vivid, but the greater part of the details vanish againbefore they can assume decisive shape; they are but half nascent, ordie as soon as born: a wave of recollection washes over the mind, butit quickly retires, leaving no trace behind. This is the commonexperience. Or it may be that the whole scene flashes upon you withpeculiar vividness, so that you see, almost as in actual presence, allthe leading characteristics of the picture. Wordsworth may have seenhis early days in a succession of vivid flashes, or he may haveattained to his distinctness of vision by a steadfast continuity ofeffort, in which what at first was vague became slowly definite as hegazed. It is certain that only a very imaginative mind could have seensuch details as he has gathered together in the lines describing how he

"Cut across the reflex of a star;Image that flying still before me gleamedUpon the glassy plain. "

The whole description may have been written with great rapidity, orwith anxious and tentative labour: the memories of boyish days may havebeen kindled with a sudden illumination, or they may have grown slowlyinto the requisite distinctness, detail after detail emerging from thegeneral obscurity, like the appearing stars at night. But whether thepoet felt his way to images and epithets, rapidly or slowly, isunimportant; we have to do only with the result; and the resultimplies, as an absolute condition, that the images were distinct. Onlythus could they serve the purposes of poetry, which must arouse in usmemories of similar scenes, and kindle emotions of pleasurableexperience. 

III. 

Having cited an example of bad writing consequent on imperfect Vision, and an example of good writing consequent on accurate Vision, I mightconsider that enough had been done for the immediate purpose of thepresent chapter; the many other illustrations which the Principle ofVision would require before it could be considered as adequatelyexpounded, I must defer till I come to treat of the application ofprinciples. But before closing this chapter it may be needful toexamine some arguments which have a contrary tendency, and imply, orseem to imply, that distinctness of Vision is very far from necessary. 

At the outset we must come to an understanding as to this word "image, "and endeavour to free the word "vision" from all equivoque. If thesewords were understood literally there would be an obvious absurdity inspeaking of an image of a sound, or of seeing an emotion. Yet if bymeans of symbols the effect of a sound is produced in us, or thepsychological state of any human being is rendered intelligible to us, we are said to have images of these things, which the poet hasimagined. It is because the eye is the most valued and intellectual ofour senses that the majority of metaphors are borrowed from itssensations. Language, after all, is only the use of symbols, and Artalso can only affect us through symbols. If a phrase can summon aterror resembling that summoned by the danger which it indicates, a manis said to see the danger. Sometimes a phrase will awaken more vividimages of danger than would be called up by the actual presence of thedangerous object; because the mind will more readily apprehend thesymbols of the phrase than interpret the indications of unassistedsense. 

Burke in his "Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, " lays down theproposition that distinctness of imagery is often injurious to theeffect of art. "It is one thing, " he says, "to make an idea clear, another to make it AFFECTING to the imagination. If I make a drawing ofa palace or a temple or a landscape, I present a very clear idea ofthose objects; but then (allowing for the effect of imitation, which issomething) my picture can at most affect only as the palace, temple, orlandscape would have affected in reality. On the other hand the mostlively and spirited verbal description I can give raises a very obscureand imperfect IDEA of such objects; but then it is in my power to raisea stronger EMOTION by the description than I can do by the bestpainting. This experience constantly evinces. The proper manner ofconveying the AFFECTIONS of the mind from one to the other is by words;there is great insufficiency in all other method of communication; andso far is a clearness of imagery, from being absolutely necessary to aninfluence upon the passions, that they may be considerably operatedupon without presenting any image at all, by certain sounds adapted tothat purpose. " If by image is meant only what the eye can see, Burke isundoubtedly right. But this is obviously not our restricted meaning ofthe word when we speak of poetic imagery; and Burke's error becomesapparent when he proceeds to show that there "are reasons in nature whyan obscure idea, when properly conveyed, should be more affecting thanthe clear. " He does not seem to have considered that the idea of anindefinite object can only be properly conveyed by indefinite images;any image of Eternity or Death that pretended to visual distinctnesswould be false. Having overlooked this, he says, "We do not anywheremeet a more sublime description than this justly celebrated one ofMilton, wherein he gives the portrait of Satan with a dignity sosuitable to the subject. 

"He above the restIn shape and gesture proudly eminentStood like a tower; his form had not yet lostAll her original brightness, nor appearedLess than archangel ruined and the excessOf glory obscured: as when the sun new risenLooks through the horizontal misty airShorn of his beams; or from behind the moonIn dim eclipse disastrous twilight shedsOn half the nations; and with fear of changePerplexes monarchs. "

"Here is a very noble picture, " adds Burke, "and in what does thispoetical picture consist? In images of a tower, an archangel, the sunrising through mists, or an eclipse, the ruin of monarchs, and therevolution of kingdoms. " Instead of recognising the imagery here as thesource of the power, he says, "The mind is hurried out of itself, [rather a strange result!], by a crowd of great and confused images;which affect because they are crowded and confused For, separate them, and you lose much of the greatness; and join them, and you infalliblylose the clearness. " This is altogether a mistake. The images are vividenough to make us feel the hovering presence of an awe-inspiring figurehaving the height and firmness of a tower, and the dusky splendour of aruined archangel. The poet indicates only that amount of concretenesswhich is necessary for the clearness of the picture, ---only the heightand firmness of the tower and the brightness of the sun in eclipse. More concretness would disturb the clearness by calling attention toirrelevant details. To suppose that these images produce the effectbecause they are crowded and confused (they are crowded and notconfused) is to imply that any other images would do equally well, ifthey were equally crowded. "Separate them, and you lose much of thegreatness. " Quite true: the image of the tower would want the splendourof the sun. But this much may be said of all descriptions which proceedupon details. And so far from the impressive clearness of the picturevanishing in the crowd of images, it is by these images that theclearness is produced: the details make it impressive, and affect ourimagination. 

It should be added that Burke came very near a true explanation in thefollowing passage:--"It is difficult to conceive how words can move thepassions which belong to real objects without representing theseobjects clearly. This is difficult to us because we do not sufficientlydistinguish between a clear expression and a strong expression. Theformer regards the understanding; the latter belongs to the passions. The one describes a thing as it is, the other describes it as it isfelt. Now as there is a moving tone of voice, an impassionedcountenance, an agitated gesture, which affect independently of thethings about which they are exerted, so there are words and certaindispositions of words which being peculiarly devoted to passionatesubjects, and always used by those who are under the influence ofpassion, touch and move us more than those which far more clearly anddistinctly express the subject-matter. " Burke here fails to see thatthe tones, looks, and gestures are the intelligible symbols ofpassion--the "images' in the true sense just as words are theintelligible symbols of ideas. The subject-matter is as clearlyexpressed by the one as by the other; for if the description of a Lionbe conveyed in the symbols of admiration or of terror, thesubject-matter is THEN a Lion passionately and not zoologicallyconsidered. And this Burke himself was led to admit, for he adds, "Weyield to sympathy what we refuse to description. The truth is, allverbal description, merely as naked description, though never so exact, conveys so poor and insufficient an idea of the thing described, thatit could scarcely have the smallest eflfect if the speaker did not callin to his aid those modes of speech that work a strong and livelyfeeling in himself. Then, by the contagion of our passions, we catch afire already kindled in another. " This is very true, and it setsclearly forth the fact that naked description, addressed to the calmunderstanding, has a different subject-matter from descriptionaddressed to the feelings, and the symbols by which it is madeintelligible must likewise differ. But this in no way impugns theprinciple of Vision. Intelligible symbols (clear images) are asnecessary in the one case as in the other. 

IV. 

By reducing imagination to the power of forming images, and byinsisting that no image can be formed except out of the elementsfurnished by experience, I do not mean to confound imagination withmemory; indeed, the frequent occurrence of great strength of memorywith comparative feebleness of imagination, would suffice to warn usagainst such a conclusion. 

Its specific character, that which marks it off from simple memory, isits tendency to selection, abstraction, and recombination. Memory, aspassive, simply recalls previous experiences of objects and emotions;from these, imagination, as an active faculty, selects the elementswhich vividly symbolise the objects or emotions, and either by aprocess of abstraction allows these to do duty for the whole, or elseby a process of recombination creates new objects and new relations inwhich the objects stand to us or to each other (INVENTION), and theresult is an image of great vividness, which has perhaps nocorresponding reality in the external world. 

Minds differ in the vividness with which they recall the elements ofprevious experience, and mentally see the absent objects; they differalso in the aptitudes for selection, abstraction, and recombination:the fine selective instinct of the artist, which makes him fasten uponthe details which will most powerfully affect us, without anydisturbance of the harmony of the general impression, does not dependsolely upon the vividness of his memory and the clearness with whichthe objects are seen, but depends also upon very complex and peculiarconditions of sympathy which we call genius. Hence we find one manremembering a multitude of details, with a memory so vivid that italmost amounts at times to hallucination, yet without any artisticpower; and we may find men--Blake was one--with an imagination ofunusual activity, who are nevertheless incapable, from deficientsympathy, of seizing upon those symbols which will most affect us. Ournative susceptibilities and acquired tastes determine which of the manyqualities in an object shall most impress us, and be most clearlyrecalled. One man remembers the combustible properties of a substance, which to another is memorable for its polarising property; to one man astream is so much water-power, to another a rendezveus for lovers. 

In the close of the last paragraph we came face to face with the greatdifficulty which constantly arrests speculation on these matters--theexistence of special aptitudes vaguely characterised as genius. Theseare obviously incommunicable. No recipe can be given for genius. No mancan be taught how to exercise the power of imagination. But he can betaught how to aid it, and how to assure himself whether he is using itor not. Having once laid hold of the Principle of Vision as afundamental principle of Art, he can always thus far apply it, that hecan assure himself whether he does or does not distinctly see thecottage he is describing, the rivulet that is gurgling through hisverses, or the character he is painting; he can assure himself whetherhe hears the voice of the speakers, and feels that what they say istrue to their natures; he can assure himself whether he sees, as inactual experience, the emotion he is depicting; and he will know thatif he does not see these things he must wait until he can, or he willpaint them ineffectively. With distinct Vision he will be able to makethe best use of his powers of expression; and the most splendid powersof expression will not avail him if his Vision be indistinct. This istrue of objects that never were seen by the eye, that never could beseen. It is as true of what are called the highest flights ofimagination as of the lowest flights. The mind must SEE the angel orthe demon, the hippogriff or centaur, the pixie or the mermaid. 

Ruskin notices how repeatedly Turner, --the most imaginative oflandscape painters, --introduced into his pictures, after a lapse ofmany years, memories of something which, however small and unimportant, had struck him in his earlier studies. He believes that all Turner's"composition" was an arrangement of remembrances summoned just as theywere wanted, and each in its fittest place. His vision was primarilycomposed of strong memory of the place itself, and secondarily ofmemories of other places associated in a harmonious, helpful way withthe now central thought. He recalled and selected. 

I am prepared to hear of many readers, especially young readers, protesting against the doctrine of this chapter as prosaic. They havebeen so long accustomed to consider imagination as peculiarlydistinguished by its disdain of reality, and Invention as onlyadmirable when its products are not simply new by selection andarrangement, but new in material, that they will reject the idea ofinvoluntary remembrance of something originally experienced as thebasis of all Art. Ruskin says of great artists, "Imagine all that anyof these men had seen or heard in the whole course of their lives, laidup accurately in their memories as in vast storehouses, extending withthe poets even to the slightest intonations of syllables heard in thebeginning of their lives, and with painters down to minute folds ofdrapery and shapes of leaves and stones; and over all this unindexedand immeasurable mass of treasure, the imagination brooding andwandering, but dream-gifted, so as to summon at any moment exactly sucha group of ideas as shall justly fit each other. " This is theexplanation of their genius, as far as it can be explained. 

Genius is rarely able to give any account of its own processes. Butthose who have had ample opportunities of intimately knowing the growthof works in the minds of artists, will bear me out in saying that avivid memory supplies the elements from a thousand different sources, most of which are quite beyond the power of localisation, theexperience of yesterday being strangely intermingled with the dimsuggestions of early years, the tones heard in childhood soundingthrough the diapason of sorrowing maturity; and all these kaleidoscopicfragments are recomposed into images that seem to have a correspondingreality of their own. 

As all Art depends on Vision, so the different kinds of Art depend onthe different ways in which minds look at things. The painter can onlyput into his pictures what he sees in Nature; and what he sees will bedifferent from what another sees. A poetical mind sees noble andaffecting suggestions in details which the prosaic mind will interpretprosaically. And the true meaning of Idealism is precisely this visionof realities in their highest and most affecting forms, not in thevision of something removed from or opposed to realities. Titian'sgrand picture of "Peter the Martyr" is, perhaps, as instructive anexample as could be chosen of successful Idealism; because in it wehave a marvellous presentation of reality as seen by a poetic mind. Thefigure of the flying monk might have been equally real if it had beenan ignoble presentation of terror--the superb tree, which may almost becalled an actor in the drama, might have been painted with even greaterminuteness, though not perhaps with equal effect upon us, if it hadarrested our attention by its details--the dying martyr and the nobleassassin might have been made equally real in more vulgar types--butthe triumph achieved by Titian is that the mind is filled with a visionof poetic beauty which is felt to be real. An equivalent reality, without the ennobling beauty, would have made the picture a fine pieceof realistic art. It is because of this poetic way of seeing thingsthat one painter will give a faithful representation of a very commonscene which shall nevertheless affect all sensitive minds as ideal, whereas another painter will represent the same with no greaterfidelity, but with a complete absence of poetry. The greater thefidelity, the greater will be the merit of each representation; for ifa man pretends to represent an object, he pretends to represent itaccurately: the only difference is what the poetical or prosaic mindsees in the object. 

Of late years there has been a reaction against conventionalism whichcalled itself Idealism, in favour of DETAILISM which calls itselfRealism. As a reaction it has been of service; but it has led to muchfalse criticism, and not a little false art, by an obtrusiveness ofDetail and a preference for the Familiar, under the misleading notionof adherence to Nature. If the words Nature and Natural could beentirely banished from language about Art there would be some chance ofcoming to a rational philosophy of the subject; at present theexcessive vagueness and shiftiness of these terms cover any amount ofsophism. The pots and pans of Teniers and Van Mieris are natural; thepassions and humours of Shakspeare and Moliere are natural; the angelsof Fra Angelico and Luini are natural; the Sleeping Fawn and Fates ofPhidias are natural; the cows and misty marshes of Cuyp and thevacillations of Hamlet are equally natural. In fact the natural meansTRUTH OF KIND. Each kind of character, each kind of representation, must be judged by itself. Whereas the vulgar error of criticism is tojudge of one kind by another, and generally to judge the higher by thelower, to remonstrate with Hamlet for not having the speech and mannerof Mr. Jones, to wish that Fra Angelico could have seen with the eyesof the Carracci, to wish verse had been prose, and that ideal tragedywere acted with the easy manner acceptable in drawing-rooms. 

The rage for "realism, " which is healthy in as far as it insists ontruth, has become unhealthy, in as far as it confounds truth withfamiliarity, and predominance of unessential details. There are othertruths besides coats and waistcoats, pots and pans, drawlng-rooms andsuburban villas. Life has other aims besides these which occupy theconversation of "Society. " And the painter who devotes years to a workrepresenting modern life, yet calls for even more attention to awaistcoat than to the face of a philosopher, may exhibit truth ofdetail which will delight the tailor-mind, but he is defective inartistic truth, because he ought to be representing something higherthan waistcoats, and because our thoughts on modern life fall verycasually and without emphasis on waistcoats. In Piloty's much-admiredpicture of the "Death of Wallenstein" (at Munich), the truth with whichthe carpet, the velvet, and all other accessories are painted, iscertainly remarkable; but the falsehood of giving prominence to suchdetails in a picture representing the dead Wallenstein--as if they werethe objects which could possibly arrest our attention and excite oursympathies in such a spectacle--is a falsehood of the realistic school. If a man means to paint upholstery, by all means let him paint it so asto delight and deceive an upholsterer; but if he means to paint a humantragedy, the upholsterer must be subordinate, and velvet must not drawour eyes away from faces. 

I have digressed a little from my straight route because I wish toguard the Principle of Vision from certain misconceptions which mightarise on a simple statement of it. The principle insists on the artistassuring himself that he distinctly sees what he attempts to represent. WHAT he sees, and HOW he represents it, depend on other principles. Tomake even this principle of Vision thoroughly intelligible in itsapplication to all forms of Literature and Art, it must be consideredin connection with the two other principles--Sincerity and Beauty, which are involved in all successful works. In the next chapter weshall treat of Sincerity. 

EDITOR. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE PRINCIPLE OF SINCERITY. 

It is always understood as an expression of condemnation when anythingin Literature or Art is said to be done for effect; and yet to producean effect is the aim and end of both. 

There is nothing beyond a verbal ambiguity here if we look at itclosely, and yet there is a corresponding uncertainty in the conceptionof Literature and Art commonly entertained, which leads many writersand many critics into the belief that what are called "effects" shouldbe sought, and when found must succeed. It is desirable to clear upthis moral ambiguity, as I may call it, and to show that the realmethod of securing the legitimate effect is not to aim at it, but toaim at the truth, relying on that for securing effect. The condemnationof whatever is "done for effect" obviously springs from indignation ata disclosed insincerity in the artist, who is self-convicted of havingneglected truth for the sake of our applause; and we refuse ourapplause to the flatterer, or give it contemptuously as to a mountebankwhose dexterity has amused us. 

It is unhappily true that much insincere Literature and Art, executedsolely with a view to effect, does succeed by deceiving the public. Butthis is only because the simulation of truth or the blindness of thepublic conceals the insincerity. As a maxim, the Principle of Sincerityis admitted. Nothing but what is true, or is held to be true, cansucceed; anything which looks like insincerity is condemned. In thisrespect we may compare it with the maxim of Honesty the best policy. Nofar-reaching intellect fails to perceive that if all men were uniformlyupright and truthful, Life would be more victorious, and Literaturemore noble. We find, however, both in Life and Literature, a practicaldisregard of the truth of these propositions almost equivalent to adisbelief in them. Many men are keenly alive to the social advantagesof honesty--in the practice of others. They are also strongly impressedwith the conviction that in their own particular case the advantagewill sometimes lie in not strictly adhering to the rule. Honesty isdoubtless the best policy in the long run; but somehow the run hereseems so very long, and a short-cut opens such allurements to impatientdesire. It requires a firm calm insight, or a noble habit of thought, to steady the wavering mind, and direct it away from delusiveshort-cuts: to make belief practice, and forego immediate triumph. Manyof those who unhesitatingly admit Sincerity to be one great conditionof success in Literature find it difficult, and often impossible, toresist the temptation of an insincerity which promises immediateadvantage. It is not only the grocers who sand their sugar beforeprayers. Writers who know well enough that the triumph of falsehood isan unholy triumph, are not deterred from falsehood by that knowledge. They know, perhaps, that, even if undetected, it will press on theirown consciences; but the knowledge avails them little. The immediatepressure of the temptation is yielded to, and Sincerity remains a textto be preached to others. To gain applause they will misstate facts, togain victory in argument they will misrepresent the opinions theyoppose; and they suppress the rising misgivings by the dangeroussophism that to discredit error is good work, and by the hope that noone will detect the means by which the work is effected. The saddestaspect of this procedure is that in Literature, as in Life, a temporarysuccess often does reward dishonesty. It would be insincere to concealit. To gain a reputation as discoverers men will invent or suppressfacts. To appear learned they will array their writings in theostentation of borrowed citations. To solicit the "sweet voices" of thecrowd they will feign sentiments they do not feel, and utter what theythink the crowd will wish to hear, keeping back whatever the crowd willhear with disapproval. And, as I said, such men often succeed for atime; the fact is so, and we must not pretend that it is otherwise. Butit no more disturbs the fundamental truth of the Principle ofSincerity, than the perturbations in the orbit of Mars disturb thetruth of Kepler's law. 

It is impossible to deny that dishonest men often grow rich and famous, becoming powerful in their parish or in parliament. Their portraitssimper from shop windows; and they live and die respected. This successis theirs; yet it is not the success which a noble soul will envy. Apart from the risk of discovery and infamy, there is the certainty ofa conscience ill at ease, or if at ease, so blunted in itssensibilities, so given over to lower lusts, that a healthy instinctrecoils from such a state. Observe, moreover, that in Literature thepossible rewards of dishonesty are small, and the probability ofdetection great. In Life a dishonest man is chiefly moved by desirestowards some tangible result of money or power; if he get these he hasgot all. The man of letters has a higher aim: the very object of histoil is to secure the sympathy and respect of men; and the rewards ofhis toil may be paid in money, fame, or consciousness of earnesteffort. The first of these may sometimes be gained without Sincerity. Fame may also, for a time, be erected on an unstable ground, though itwill inevitably be destroyed again. But the last and not least rewardis to be gained by every one without fear of failure, without risk ofchange. Sincere work is good work, be it never so humble; and sincerework is not only an indestructible delight to the worker by its verygenuineness, but is immortal in the best sense, for it lives for everin its influence. There is no good Dictionary, not even a good Index, that is not in this sense priceless, for it has honestly furthered thework of the world, saving labour to others, setting an example tosuccessors. 

Whether I make a careful Index, or an inaccurate one, will probably inno respect affect the money-payment I shall receive. My sins will neverfall heavily on me; my virtue will gain me neither extra pence norpraise. I shall be hidden by obscurity from the indignation of thosewhose valuable time is wasted over my pretence at accuracy, as from thesilent gratitude of those whose time is saved by my honest fidelity. The consciousness of faithfulness even to the poor index maker may be abetter reward than pence or praise; but of course we cannot expect theunconscientious to believe this. If I sand my sugar, and tell lies overmy counter, I may gain the rewards of dishonesty, or I may be overtakenby its Nemesis. But if I am faithful in my work the reward cannot bewithheld from me. The obscure workers who, knowing that they will neverearn renown yet feel an honourable pride in doing their workfaithfully, may be likened to the benevolent who feel a noble delightin performing generous actions which will never be known to be theirs, the only end they seek in such actions being the good which is wroughtfor others, and their delight being the sympathy with others. 

I should be ashamed to insist on truths so little likely to bedisputed, did they not point directly at the great source of badLiterature, which, as was said in our first chapter, springs from awant of proper moral guidance rather than from deficiency of talent. The Principle of Sincerity comprises all those qualities of courage, patience, honesty, and simplicity which give momentum to talent, anddetermine successful Literature. It is not enough to have the eye tosee; there must also be the courage to express what the eye has seen, and the steadfastness of a trust in truth. Insight, imagination, graceof style are potent; but their power is delusive unless sincerelyguided. If any one should object that this is a truism, the answer isready: Writers disregard its truth, as traders disregard the truism ofhonesty being the best policy. Nay, as even the most upright men areoccasionally liable to swerve from the truth, so the most uprightauthors will in some passages desert a perfect sincerity; yet the idealof both is rigorous truth. Men who are never flagrantly dishonest areat times unveracious in small matters, colouring or suppressing factswith a conscious purpose; and writers who never stole an idea norpretended to honours for which they had not striven, may be foundlapsing into small insincerities, speaking a language which is nottheirs, uttering opinions which they expect to gain applause ratherthan the opinions really believed by them. But if few men are perfectlyand persistently sincere, Sincerity is nevertheless the only enduringstrength. 

The principle is universal, stretching from the highest purposes ofLiterature down to its smallest details. It underlies the labour of thephilosopher, the investigator, the moralist, the poet, the novelist, the critic, the historian, and the compiler. It is visible in thepublication of opinions, in the structure of sentences, and in thefidelity of citations. Men utter insincere thoughts, they expressthemselves in echoes and affectations, and they are careless ordishonest in their use of the labours of others, all the time believingin the virtue of sincerity, all the time trying to make others believehonesty to be the best policy. 

Let us glance for a moment at the most important applications of theprinciple. A man must be himself convinced if he is to convince others. The prophet must be his own disciple, or he will make none. Enthusiasmis contagious: belief creates belief. There is no influence issuingfrom unbelief or from languid acquiescence. This is peculiarlynoticeable in Art, because Art depends on sympathy for its influence, and unless the artist has felt the emotions he depicts we remainunmoved: in proportion to the depth of his feeling is our sympatheticresponse; in proportion to the shallowness or falsehood of hispresentation is our coldness or indifference. Many writers who havebeen fond of quoting the SI VIS ME FLERE of Horace have written as ifthey did not believe a word of it; for they have been silent on theirown convictions, suppressed their own experience, and falsified theirown feelings to repeat the convictions and fine phrases of another. Iam sorry that my experience assures me that many of those who will readwith complete assent all here written respecting the power ofSincerity, will basely desert their allegiance to the truth the nexttime they begin to write; and they will desert it because theirmisguided views of Literature prompt them to think more of what thepublic is likely to applaud than of what is worth applause;unfortunately for them their estimation of this likelihood is generallybased on a very erroneous assumption of public wants: they grosslymistake the taste they pander to. 

In all sincere speech there is power, not necessarily great power, butas much as the speaker is capable of. Speak for yourself and fromyourself, or be silent. It can be of no good that you should tell inyour "clever" feeble way what another has already told us with thedynamic energy of conviction. If you can tell us something that yourown eyes have seen, your own mind has thought, your own heart has felt, you will have power over us, and all the real power that is possiblefor you. If what you have seen is trivial, if what you have thought iserroneous, if what you have felt is feeble, it would assuredly bebetter that you should not speak at all; but if you insist on speakingSincerity will secure the uttermost of power. 

The delusions of self-love cannot be prevented, but intellectualmisconceptions as to the means of achieving success may be corrected. Thus although it may not be possible for any introspection to discoverwhether we have genius or effective power, it is quite possible to knowwhether we are trading upon borrowed capital, and whether the eagle'sfeathers have been picked up by us, or grow from our own wings. I hearsome one of my young readers exclaim against the disheartening tendencyof what is here said. Ambitious of success, and conscious that he hasno great resources within his own experience, he shrinks from the ideaof being thrown upon his naked faculty and limited resources, when hefeels himself capable of dexterously using the resources of others, andso producing an effective work. "Why, " he asks, "must I confine myselfto my own small experience, when I feel persuaded that it will interestno one? Why express the opinions to which my own investigations haveled me when I suspect that they are incomplete, perhaps altogethererroneous, and when I know that they will not be popular because theyare unlike those which have hitherto found favour? Your restrictionswould reduce two-thirds of our writers to silence!"

This reduction would, I suspect, be welcomed by every one except thegagged writers; but as the idea of its being operative is toochimerical for us to entertain it, and as the purpose of these pages isto expound the principles of success and failure, not to make Quixoticonslaughts on the windmills of stupidity and conceit, I answer my younginterrogator: "Take warning and do not write. Unless you believe inyourself, only noodles will believe in you, and they but tepidly. Ifyour experience seems trivial to you, it must seem trivial to us. Ifyour thoughts are not fervid convictions, or sincere doubts, they willnot have the power of convictions and doubts. To believe in yourself isthe first step; to proclaim your belief the next. You cannot assume thepower of another. No jay becomes an eagle by borrowing a few eaglefeathers. It is true that your sincerity will not be a guarantee ofpower. You may believe that to be important and novel which we allrecognise as trivial and old. You may be a madman, and believe yourselfa prophet. You may be a mere echo, and believe yourself a voice. Theseare among the delusions against which none of us are protected. But ifSincerity is not necessarily a guarantee of power, it is a necessarycondition of power, and no genius or prophet can exist without it. "

"The highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton, " saysEmerson, "is that they set at nought books and traditions, and spokenot what men thought, but what they thought. A man should learn todetect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind fromwithin; more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yethe dismisses without notice his thought because it is his. In everywork of genius we recognise our own rejected thoughts; they come backto us with a certain alienated majesty. " It is strange that any one whohas recognised the individuality of all works of lasting influence, should not also recognise the fact that his own individuality ought tobe steadfastly preserved. As Emerson says in continuation, "Great worksof art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us toabide by our spontaneous impressions with good-humoured inflexibility, then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Elsetomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense, precisely whatwe have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to takewith shame our opinion from another. " Accepting the opinions of anotherand the tastes of another is very different from agreement in opinionand taste. Originality is independence, not rebellion; it is sincerity, not antagonism. Whatever you believe to be true and false, thatproclaim to be true and false; whatever you think admirable andbeautiful, that should be your model, even if all your friends and allthe critics storm at you as a crochet-monger and an eccentric. Whetherthe public will feel its truth and beauty at once, or after long years, or never cease to regard it as paradox and ugliness, no man canforesee; enough for you to know that you have done your best, have beentrue to yourself, and that the utmost power inherent in your work hasbeen displayed. 

An orator whose purpose is to persuade men must speak the things theywish to hear; an orator, whose purpose is to move men, must also avoiddisturbing the emotional effect by any obtrusion of intellectualantagonism; but an author whose purpose is to instruct men, who appealsto the intellect, must be careless of their opinions, and think only oftruth. It will often be a question when a man is or is not wise inadvancing unpalateable opinions, or in preaching heresies; but it cannever be a question that a man should be silent if unprepared to speakthe truth as he conceives it. Deference to popular opinion is one greatsource of bad writing, and is all the more disastrous because thedeference is paid to some purely hypothetical requirement. When a manfails to see the truth of certain generally accepted views, there is nolaw compelling him to provoke animosity by announcing his dissent. Hemay be excused if he shrink from the lurid glory of martyrdom; he maybe justified in not placing himself in a position of singularity. Hemay even be commended for not helping to perplex mankind with doubtswhich he feels to be founded on limited and possibly erroneousinvestigation. But if allegiance to truth lays no stern command uponhim to speak out his immature dissent, it does lay a stern command notto speak out hypocritical assent. There are many justifications ofsilence; there can be none of insincerity. 

Nor is this less true of minor questions; it applies equally toopinions on matters of taste and personal feeling. Why should I echowhat seem to me the extravagant praises of Raphael's "Transfiguration, "when, in truth, I do not greatly admire that famous work ? There is nonecessity for me to speak on the subject at all; but if I do speak, surely it is to utter my impressions, and not to repeat what othershave uttered. Here, then, is a dilemma; if I say what I really feelabout this work, after vainly endeavouring day after day to discoverthe transcendent merits discovered by thousands (or at least proclaimedby them), there is every likelihood of my incurring the contempt ofconnoisseurs, and of being reproached with want of taste in art. Thisis the bugbear which scares thousands. For myself, I would rather incurthe contempt of connoisseurs than my own; the repreach of defectivetaste is more endurable than the reproach of insincerity. Suppose I amdeficient in the requisite knowledge and sensibility, shall I be lessso by pretending to admire what really gives me no exquisite enjoyment?Will the pleasure I feel in pictures be enhanced because other menconsider me right in my admlration, or diminished because they considerme wrong?

[I have never thoroughly understood the painful anxiety of people to beshielded against the dishonouring suspicion of not rightly appreciatingpictures, even when the very phrases they use betray their ignoranceand insensibility. Many will avow their indifference to music, andalmost boast of their ignorance of science; will sneer at abstracttheories, and profess the most tepid interest in history, who wouldfeel it an unpardonable insult if you doubted their enthusiasm forpainting and the "old masters" (by them secretly identified with thebrown masters). It is an insincerity fostered by general pretence. Eachman is afraid to declare his real sentiments in the presence of othersequally timid. Massive authority overawes genuine feeling]. 

 The opinion of the majority is not lightly to be rejected; butneither is it to be carelessly echoed. There is something noble in thesubmission to a great renown, which makes all reverence a healthyattitude if it be genuine. When I think of the immense fame of Raphael, and of how many high and delicate minds have found exquisite delighteven in the "Transfiguration, " and especially when I recall how othersof his works have affected me, it is natural to feel some diffidence inopposing the judgment of men whose studies have given them the bestmeans of forming that judgment--a diffidence which may keep me silenton the matter. To start with the assumption that you are right, and allwho oppose you are fools, cannot be a safe method. Nor in spite of aconviction that much of the admiration expressed for the"Transfiguration" is lip-homage and tradition, ought the non-admiringto assume that all of it is insincere. It is quite compatible withmodesty to be perfectly independent, and with sincerity to berespectful to the opinions and tastes of others. If you express anyopinion, you are bound to express your real opinion; let critics andadmirers utter what dithyrambs they please. Were this terror of notbeing thought correct in taste once got rid of, how many stereotypedjudgments on books and pictures would be broken up! and the result ofthis sincerity would be some really valuable criticism. In the presenceof Raphael's "Sistine Madonna, " Titian's "Peter the Martyr, " orMasaccio's great frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel, one feels as ifthere had been nothing written about these mighty works, so little doesany eulogy discriminate the elements of their profound effects, solittle have critics expressed their own thoughts and feelings. Yetevery day some wandering connoisseur stands before these pictures, andat once, without waiting to let them sink deep into his mind, discoversall the merits which are stereotyped in the criticisms, and discoversnothing else. He does not wait to feel, he is impatient to rangehimself with men of taste; he discards all genuine impressions, replacing them with vague conceptions of what he is expected to see. 

Inasmuch as Success must be determined by the relation between the workand the public, the sincerity which leads a man into open revoltagainst established opinions may seem to be an obstacle. Indeed, publishers, critics, and friends are always loud in their propheciesagainst originality and independence on this very ground; they do theirutmost to stifle every attempt at novelty, because they fix their eyesupon a hypothetical public taste, and think that only what has alreadybeen proved successful can again succeed; forgetting that whatever hasonce been done need not be done over again, and forgetting that what isnow commonplace was once originality. There are cases in which adisregard of public opinion will inevitably call forth opprobrium orneglect; but there is no case in which Sincerity is not strength. If Iadvance new views in Philosophy or Theology, I cannot expect to havemany adherents among minds altogether unprepared for such views; yet itis certain that even those who most fiercely oppose me will recognisethe power of my voice if it is not a mere echo; and the very noveltywill challenge attention, and at last gain adherents if my views haveany real insight. At any rate the point to be considered is this, thatwhether the novel views excite opposition or applause, the onecondition of their success is that they be believed in by thepropagator. The public can only be really moved by what is genuine. Even an error if believed in will have greater force than an insinceretruth. Lip-advocacy only rouses lip-homage. It is belief which givesmomentum. 

Nor is it any serious objection to what is here said, that insincerityand timid acquiescence in the opinion and tastes of thc public do oftengain applause and temporary success. Sanding the sugar is notimmediately unprofitable. There is an unpleasant popularity given tofalsehood in this world of ours; but we love the truth notwithstanding, and with a more enduring love. Who does not know what it is to listento public speakers pouring forth expressions of hollow belief and shamenthusiasm, snatching at commonplaces with a fervour as of faith, emphasising insincerities as if to make up by emphasis what is wantingin feeling, all the while saying not only what they do not believe, butwhat the listeners KNOW they do not believe, and what the listeners, though they roar assent, do not themselves believe--a turbulence ofsham, the very noise of which stuns the conscience? Is such an oratorreally enviable, although thunders of applause may have greeted hisefforts? Is that success, although the newspapers all over the kingdommay be reporting the speech? What influence remains when the noise ofthe shouts has died away? Whereas, if on the same occasion one man gaveutterance to a sincere thought, even if it were not a very wisethought, although the silence of the public--perhaps its hisses--mayhave produced an impression of failure, yet there is success, for thethought will re-appear and mingle with the thoughts of men to beadopted or combated by them, and may perhaps in a few years mark outthe speaker as a man better worth listening to than the noisy oratorwhose insincerity was so much cheered. 

The same observation applies to books. An author who waits upon thetimes, and utters only what he thinks the world will like to hear, whosails with the stream, admiring everything which it is "correct taste"to admire, despising everything which has not yet received thatHall-mark, sneering at the thoughts of a great thinker not yet acceptedas such, and slavishly repeating the small phrases of a thinker who hasgained renown, flippant and contemptuous towards opinions which he hasnot taken the trouble to understand, and never venturing to oppose eventhe errors of men in authority, such an author may indeed by dint of acertain dexterity in assorting the mere husks of opinion gain theapplause of reviewers, who will call him a thinker, and of indolent menand women who will pronounce him "so clever ;" but triumphs of thiskind are like oratorical triumphs after dinner. Every autumn the earthis strewed with the dead leaves of such vernal successes. 

I would not have the reader conclude that because I advocateplain-speaking even of unpopular views, I mean to imply thatoriginality and sincerity are always in opposition to public opinion. There are many points both of doctrine and feeling in which the worldis not likely to be wrong. But in all cases it is desirable that menshould not pretend to believe opinions which they really reject, orexpress emotions they do not feel. And this rule is universal. Eventruthful and modest men will sometimes violate the rule under themistaken idea of being eloquent by means of the diction of eloquence. This is a source of bad Literature. There are certain views inReligion, Ethics, and Politics, which readily lend themselves toeloquence, because eloquent men have written largely on them, and thetemptation to secure this facile effect often seduces men to advocatethese views in preference to views they really see to be more rational. That this eloquence at second-hand is but feeble in its effect, doesnot restrain others from repeating it. Experience never seems to teachthem that grand speech comes only from grand thoughts, passionatespeech from passionate emotions. The pomp and roll of words, the trickof phrase, the rhytlnn and the gesture of an orator, may all beimitated, but not his eloquence. No man was ever eloquent by trying tobe eloquent, but only by being so. Trying leads to the vice of "finewriting"--the plague-spot of Literature, not only unhealthy in itself, and vulgarising the grand language which should be reserved for greatthoughts, but encouraging that tendency to select only those views uponwhich a spurious enthusiasm can most readily graft the representativeabstractions and stirring suggestions which will move public applause. The "fine writer" will always prefer the opinion which is striking tothe opinion which is true. He frames his sentences by the ear, and isonly dissatisfied with them when their cadences are ill-distributed, ortheir diction is too familiar. It seldom occurs to him that a sentenceshould accurately express his meaning and no more; indeed there is notoften a definite meaning to be expressed, for the thought which arosevanished while he tried to express it, and the sentence, instead ofbeing determined by and moulded on a thought, is determined by someverbal suggestion. Open any book or periodical, and see how frequentlythe writer does not, cannot, mean what he says; and you will observethat in general the defect does not arise from any poverty in ourlanguage, but from the habitual carelessness which allows expressionsto be written down unchallenged provided they are sufficientlyharmonious, and not glaringly inadequate. 

The slapdash insincerity of modern style entirely sets at nought thefirst principle of writing, which is accuracy. The art of writing isnot, as many seem to imagine, the art of bringing fine phrases intorhythmical order, but the art of placing before the reader intelligiblesymbols of the thoughts and feelings in the writer's mind. Endeavour tobe faithful, and if there is any beauty in your thought, your stylewill be beautiful; if there is any real emotion to express, theexpression will be moving. Never rouge your style. Trust to your nativepallor rather than to cosmetics. Try to make us see what you see and tofeel what you feel, and banish from your mind whatever phrases othersmay have used to express what was in their thoughts, but is not inyours. Have you never observed what a light impression writers haveproduced, in spite of a profusion of images, antitheses, wittyepigrams, and rolling periods, whereas some simpler style, altogetherwanting in such "brilliant passage, " has gained the attention andrespect of thousands? Whatever is stuck on as ornament affects us asornament; we do not think an old hag young and handsome because thejewels flash from her brow and bosom; if we envy her wealth, we do notadmire her beauty. 

What "fine writing" is to prosaists, insincere imagery is to poets: itis introduced for effect, not used as expression. To the real poet animage comes spontaneously, or if it comes as an afterthought, it ischosen because it expresses his meaning and helps to paint the picturewhich is in his mind, not because it is beautiful in itself. It is asymbol, not an ornament. Whether the image rise slowly before the mindduring contemplation, or is seen in the same flash which discloses thepicture, in each case it arises by natural association, and is SEEN, not SOUGHT. The inferior poet is dissatisfied with what he sees, andcasts about in search after something more striking. He does not waittill an image is borne in upon the tide of memory, he seeks for animage that will be picturesque; and being without the delicateselective instinct which guides the fine artist, he generally choosessomething which we feel to be not exactly in its right place. He thus--

"With gold and silver covers every part, And hides with ornament his want of art. "

Be true to your own soul, and do not try to express the thought ofanother. "If some people, " says Ruskin, "really see angels where otherssee only empty space, let them paint angels: only let not anybody elsethink they can paint an angel too, on any calculated principles of theangelic. " Unhappily this is precisely what so many will attempt, inspired by the success of the angelic painter. Nor will the failure ofothers warn them. 

Whatever is sincerely felt or believed, whatever forms part of theimaginative experience, and is not simply imitation or hearsay, mayfitly be given to the world, and will always maintain an infinitesuperiority over imitative splendour; because although it by no meansfollows that whatever has formed part of the artist's experience mustbe impressive, or can do without artistic presentation, yet hisartistic power will always be greater over his own material than overanother's. Emerson has well remarked "that those facts, words, personswhich dwell in a man's memory without his being able to say why, remainbecause they have a relation to him not less real for being as yetunapprehended. They are symbols of value to him as they can interpretparts of his consciousness which he would vainly seek words for in theconventional images of books and other minds. What attracts myattention shall have it; as I will go to the man who knocks at my doorwhile a thousand persons as worthy go by it to whom I give no regard. It is enough that these particulars speak to me. A few anecdotes, a fewtraits of character, manners, faces, a few incidents have an emphasisin your memory out of all proportion to their apparent significance ifyou measure them by ordinary standards. They relate to your gift. Letthem have their weight, and do not reject them, or cast about forillustrations and facts more usual in literature. "

In the notes to the last edition of his poems, Wordsworth specified theparticular occasions which furnished him with particular images. It wasthe things he had SEEN which he put into his verses; and that is whythey affect us. It matters little whether the poet draws his imagesdirectly from present experience, or indirectly from memory--whetherthe sight of the slow-sailing swan, that "floats double swan andshadow" be at once transferred to the scene of the poem he is writing, or come back upon him in after years to complete some picture in hismind; enough that the image be suggested, and not sought. 

The sentence from Ruskin, quoted just now, will guard against themisconception that a writer, because told to rely on his ownexperience, is enjoined to forego the glory and delight of creationeven of fantastic types. He is only told never to pretend to see whathe has not seen. He is urged to follow Imagination in her most erraticcourse, though like a will-o'-wisp she lead over marsh and fen awayfrom the haunts of mortals; but not to pretend that he is following awill-o'-wisp when his vagrant fancy never was allured by one. It isidle to paint fairies and goblins unless you have a genuine vision ofthem which forces you to paint them. They are poetical objects, butonly to poetic minds. "Be a plain photographer if you possibly can, "says Ruskin, "if Nature meant you for anything else she will force youto it; but never try to be a prophet; go on quietly with your hard campwork, and the spirit will come to you as it did to Eldad and Medad ifyou are appointed to it. " Yes: if you are appointed to it; if yourfaculties are such that this high success is possible, it will come, provided the faculties are employed with sincerity. Otherwise it cannotcome. No insincere effort can secure it. 

If the advice I give to reject every insincerity in writing seem cruel, because it robs the writer of so many of his effects---if it seemdisheartening to earnestly warn a man not to TRY to be eloquent, butonly to BE eloquent when his thoughts move with an impassionedLARGO--if throwing a writer back upon his naked faculty seem especiallydistasteful to those who have a painful misgiving that their faculty issmall, and that the uttermost of their own power would be far fromimpressive, my answer is that I have no hope of dissuading feeblewriters from the practice of insincerity, but as under no circumstancescan they become good writers and achieve success, my analysis has noreference to them, my advice has no aim at them. It is to the young andstrong, to the ambitious and the earnest, that my words are addressed. It is to wipe the film from their eyes, and make them see, as they willsee directly the truth is placed before them, how easily we are allseduced into greater or less insincerity of thought, of feeling, and ofstyle, either by reliance on other writers, from whom we catch thetrick of thought and turn of phrase, or from some preconceived view ofwhat the public will prefer. It is to the young and strong I say: Watchvigilantly every phrase you write, and assure yourself that itexpresses what you mean; watch vigilantly every thought you express, and assure yourself that it is yours, not another's; you may share itwith another, but you must not adopt it from him for the nonce. Ofcourse, if you are writing humorously or dramatically, you will not beexpected to write your own serious opinions. Humour may take its utmostlicence, yet be sincere. The dramatic genius may incarnate itself in ahundred shapes, yet in each it will speak what it feels to be thetruth. If you are imaginatively representing the feelings of another, as in some playful exaggeration or some dramatic personation, the truthrequired of you is imaginative truth, not your personal views andfeelings. But when you write in your own person you must be rigidlyveracious, neither pretending to admire what you do not admire, or todespise what in secret you rather like, nor surcharging your admirationand enthusiasm to bring you into unison with the public chorus. Thisvigilance may render Literature more laborious; but no one eversupposed that success was to be had on easy terms; and if you onlywrite one sincere page where you might have written twenty insincerepages, the one page is worth writing--it is Literature. 

Sincerity is not only effective and honourable, it is also much lessdifficult than is commonly supposed. To take a trifling example: If forsome reason I cannot, or do not, choose to verify a quotation which maybe useful to my purpose, what is to prevent my saying that thequotation is taken at second-hand? It is true, if my quotations are forthe most part second-hand and are acknowledged as such, my eruditionwill appear scanty. But it will only appear what it is. Why should Ipretend to an erudition which is not mine? Sincerity forbids it. Prudence whispers that the pretence is, after all, vain, because those, and those alone, who can rightly estimate erudition will infalliblydetect my pretence, whereas those whom I have deceived were not worthdeceiving. Yet in spite of Sincerity and Prudence, how shamelessly mencompile second-hand references, and display in borrowed footnotes apretence of labour and of accuracy! I mention this merely to show how, even in the humbler class of compilers, the Principle of Sincerity mayfind fit illustrations, and how honest work, even in references, belongs to the same category as honest work in philosophy or poetry. EDITOR. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE PRINCIPLE OF BEAUTY. 

It is not enough that a man has clearness of Vision, and reliance onSincerity, he must also have the art of Expression, or he will remainobscure. Many have had

"The visionary eye, the faculty to seeThe thing that hath been as the thing which is, "

but either from native defect, or the mistaken bias of education, havebeen frustrated in the attempt to give their visions beautiful orintelligible shape. The art which could give them shape is doubtlessintimately dependent on clearness of eye and sincerity of purpose, butit is also something over and above these, and comes from an organicaptitude not less special, when possessed with fulness, than theaptitude for music or drawing. Any instructed person can write, as anyone can learn to draw; but to write well, to express ideas withfelicity and force, is not an accomplishment but a talent. The power ofseizing unapparent relations of things is not always conjoined with thepower of selecting the fittest verbal symbols by which they can be madeapparent to others: the one is the power of the thinker, the other thepower of the writer. 

"Style, " says De Quincey, "has two separate functions---first, tobrighten the INTELLIGIBILITY of a subject which is obscure to theunderstanding; secondly, to regenerate the normal POWER andimpressiveness of a subject which has become dormant to thesensibilities. . . . . Decaying lineaments are to be retraced and fadedcolouring to be refreshed. " To effect these purposes we require a richverbal memory from which to select the symbols best fitted to call upimages in the reader's mind, and we also require the delicate selectiveinstinct to guide us in the choice and arrangement of those symbols, sothat the rhythm and cadence may agreeably attune the mind, rendering itreceptive to the impressions meant to be communicated. A copious verbalmemory, like a copious memory of facts, is only one source of power, and without the high controlling faculty of the artist may lead todiffusive indecision. Just as one man, gilted with keen insight, willfrom a small stock of facts extricate unapparent relations to whichothers, rich in knowledge, have been blind; so will a writer giftedwith a fine instinct select from a narrow range of phrases symbols ofbeauty and of power utterly beyond the reach of commonplace minds. Itis often considered, both by writers and readers, that fine languagemakes fine writers; yet no one supposes that fine colours make a finepainter. The COPIA VERBORUM is often a weakness and a snare. As ArthurHelps says, men use several epithets in the hope that one of them mayfit. But the artist knows which epithet does fit, uses that, andrejects the rest. The characteristic weakness of bad writers isinaccuracy: their symbols do not adequately express their ideas. Pausebut for a moment over their sentences, and you perceive that they areusing language at random, the choice being guided rather by someindistinct association of phrases, or some broken echoes of familiarsounds, than by any selection of words to represent ideas. I read theother day of the truck system being "rampant" in a certain district;and every day we may meet with similar echoes of familiar words whichbetray the flaccid condition of the writer's mind drooping under thelabour of expression. 

Except in the rare cases of great dynamic thinkers whose thoughts areas turning-points in the history of our race, it is by Style thatwriters gain distinction, by Style they secure their immortality. In alower sphere many are remarked as writers although they may lay noclaim to distinction as thinkers, if they have the faculty offelicitously expressing the ideas of others; and many who are reallyremarkable as thinkers gain but slight recognition from the public, simply because in them the faculty of expression is feeble. Inproportion as the work passes from the sphere of passionlessintelligence to that of impassioned intelligence, from the region ofdemonstration to the region of emotion, the art of Style becomes morecomplex, its necessity more imperious. But even in Philosophy andScience the art is both subtle and necessary; the choice andarrangement of the fitting symbols, though less difficult than in Art, is quite indispensable to success. If the distinction which I formerlydrew between the Scientific and the Artistic tendencies be accepted, itwill disclose a corresponding difference in the Style which suits aratiocinative exposition fixing attention on abstract relations, and anemotive exposition fixing attention on objects as related to thefeelings. We do not expect the scientific writer to stir our emotions, otherwise than by the secondary influences which arise from our awe anddelight at the unveiling of new truths. In his own researches he shouldextricate himself from the perturbing influences of emotion, andconsequently he should protect us from such suggestions in hisexposition. Feellng too often smites intellect with blindness, andintellect too often paralyses the free play of emotion, not to call fora decisive separation of the two. But this separation is no ground forthe disregard of Style in works, of pure demonstration--as we shall seeby-and-by. 

The Principle of Beauty is only another name for Style, which is anart, incommunicable as are all other arts, but like them subordinatedto laws founded on psychological conditions. The laws constitute thePhilosophy of Criticism; and I shall have to ask the reader'sindulgence if for the first time I attempt to expound themscientifically in the chapter to which the present is only anintroduction. A knowledge of these laws, even presuming them to beaccurately expounded, will no more give a writer the power offelicitous expression than a knowledge of the laws of colour, perspective, and proportion will enable a critic to paint a picture. But all good writing must conform to these laws; all bad writing willbe found to violate them. And the utility of the knowledge will be thatof a constant monitor, warning the artist of the errors into which hehas slipped, or into which he may slip if unwarned. 

How is it that while every one acknowledges the importance of Style, and numerous critics from Quinctilian and Longinus down to QuarterlyReviewers have written upon it, very little has been done towards asatisfactory establishment of principles? Is it not partly because thecritics have seldom held the true purpose of Style steadily beforetheir eyes, and still seldomer justified their canons by deducing themfrom psychological conditions? To my apprehension they seem to havemistaken the real sources of influence, and have fastened attentionupon some accidental or collateral details, instead of tracing thedirect connection between effects and causes. Misled by the splendourof some great renown they have concluded that to write like Cicero orto paint like Titian must be the pathway to success; which is true inone sense, and profoundly false as they understand it. One pestilentcontagious error issued from this misconception, namely, that allmaxims confirmed by the practice of the great artists must be maximsfor the art; although a close examination might reveal that thepractice of these artists may have been the result of their peculiarindividualities or of the state of culture at their epoch. A truePhilosophy of Criticism would exhibit in how far such maxims wereuniversal, as founded on laws of human nature, and in how faradaptations to particular individualities. A great talent will discovernew methods. A great success ought to put us on the track of newprinciples. But the fundamental laws of Style, resting on the truths ofhuman nature, may be illustrated, they cannot be guaranteed by anyindividual success. Moreover, the strong individuality of the artistwill create special modifications of the laws to suit himself, makingthat excellent or endurable which in other hands would be intolerable. If the purpose of Literature be the sincere expression of theindividual's own ideas and feelings it is obvious that the cant aboutthe "best models" tends to pervert and obstruct that expression. Unlessa man thinks and feels precisely after the manner of Cicero and Titianit is manifestly wrong for him to express himself in their way. He maystudy in them the principles of effect, and try to surprise some oftheir secrets, but he should resolutely shun all imitation of them. They ought to be illustrations not authorities, studies not models. 

The fallacy about models is seen at once if we ask this simplequestion: Will the practice of a great writer justify a solecism ingrammar or a confusion in logic? No. Then why should it justify anyother detail not to be reconciled with universal truth? If we areforced to invoke the arbitration of reason in the one case, we must doso in the other. Unless we set aside the individual practice wheneverit is irreconcilable with general principles, we shall be unable todiscriminate in a successful work those merits which SECURED from thosedemerits which ACCOMPANIED success. Now this is precisely the conditionin which Criticism has always been. It has been formal instead of beingpsychological: it has drawn its maxims from the works of successfulartists, instead of ascertaining the psychological principles involvedin the effects of those works. When the perplexed dramatist called downcurses on the man who invented fifth acts, he never thought of escapingfrom his tribulation by writing a play in four acts; the formal canonwhich made five acts indispensable to a tragedy was drawn from thepractice of great dramatists, but there was no demonstration of anypsychological demand on the part of the audience for precisely fiveacts. 

[English critics are much less pedantic in adherence to "rules" thanthe French, yet when, many years ago, there appeared a tragedy in threeacts, and without a death, these innovations were consideredinadmissible; and if the success of the work had been such as to elicitcritical discussion, the necessity of five acts and a death woulddoubtless have been generally insisted on]. 

Although no instructed mind will for a moment doubt the immenseadvantage of the stimulus and culture derived from a reverentfamiliarity with the works of our great predecessors andcontemperaries, there is a pernicious error which has been fostered bymany instructed minds, rising out of their reverence for greatness andtheir forgetfulness of the ends of Literature. This error is the notionof "models, " and of fixed canons drawn from the practice of greatartists. It substitutes Imitation for Invention; reproduction of oldtypes instead of the creation of new. There is more bad than good workproduced in consequence of the assiduous following of models. And weshall seldom be very wide of the mark if in our estimation of youthfulproductions we place more reliance on their departures from what hasbeen already done, than on their resemblances to the best artists. Anenergetic crudity, even a riotous absurdity, has more promise in itthan a clever and elegant mediocrity, because it shows that the youngman is speaking out of his own heart, and struggling to express himselfin his own way rather than in the way he finds in other men's books. The early works of original writers are usually very bad; then succeedsa short interval of imitation in which the influence of some favouriteauthor is distinctly traceable; but this does not last long, the nativeindependence of the mind reasserts itself, and although perhapsacademic and critical demands are somewhat disregarded, so that theoriginal writer on account of his very originality receives but slightrecognition from the authorities, nevertheless if there is any realpower in the voice it soon makes itself felt in the world. There is oneword of counsel I would give to young authors, which is that theyshould be humbly obedient to the truth proclaimed by their own souls, and haughtily indifferent to the remonstrances of critics foundedsolely on any departure from the truths expressed by others. It by nomeans follows that because a work is unlike works that have gone beforeit, therefore it is excellent or even tolerable; it may be original inerror or in ugliness; but one thing is certain, that in proportion toits close fidelity to the matter and manner of existing works will beits intrinsic worthlessness. And one of the severest assaults on thefortitude of an unacknowledged writer comes from the knowledge that hiscritics, with rare exceptions, will judge his work in reference topre-existing models, and not in reference to the ends of Literature andthe laws of human nature. He knows that he will be compared withartists whom he ought not to resemble if his work have truth andoriginality; and finds himself teased with disparaging remarks whichare really compliments in their objections. He can comfort himself byhis trust in truth and the sincerity of his own work. He may also drawstrength from the reflection that the public and posterity maycordially appreciate the work in which constituted authorities seenothing but failure. The history of Literature abounds in examples ofcritics being entirely at fault missing the old familiar landmarks, these guides at once set up a shout of warning that the path has beenmissed. 

Very noticeable is the fact that of the thousands who have devotedyears to the study of the classics, especially to the "niceties ofphrase" and "chastity of composition, " so much prized in theseclassics, very few have learned to write with felicity, and not manywith accuracy. Native incompetence has doubtless largely influencedthis result in men who are insensible to the nicer shades ofdistinction in terms, and want the subtle sense of congruity; but thefalse plan of studying "models" without clearly understanding thepsychological conditions which the effects involve, without seeing whygreat writing is effective, and where it is merely individualexpression, has injured even vigorous minds and paralysed the weak. From a similar mistake hundreds have deceived themselves in trying tocatch the trick of phrase peculiar tn some distinguished contemporary. In vain do they imitate the Latinisms and antitheses of Johnson, theepigrammatic sentences of Macaulay, the colloquial ease of Thackeray, the cumulative pomp of Milton, the diffusive play of De Quincey: a fewfriendly or ignorant reviewers may applaud it as "brilliant writing, "but the public remains unmoved. It is imitation, and as such it islifeless. 

We see at once the mistake directly we understand that a genuine styleis the living body of thought, not a costume that can be put on andoff; it is the expression of the writer's mind; it is not less theincarnation of his thoughts in verbal symbols than a picture is thepainter's incarnation of his thoughts in symbols of form and colour. Aman may, if it please him, dress his thoughts in the tawdry splendourof a masquerade. But this is no more Literature than the masquerade isLife. 

No Style can be good that is not slncere. It must be the expression ofits author's mind. There are, of course, certain elements ofcomposition which must be mastered as a dancer learns his steps, butthe style of the writer, like the grace of the dancer, is only madeeffective by such mastery; it springs from a deeper source. Initiationinto the rules of construction will save us from some gross errors ofcomposltion, but it will not make a style. Still less will imitation ofanother's manner make one. In our day there are many who imitateMacaulay's short sentences, iterations, antitheses, geographical andhistorical illustrations, and eighteenth century diction, but whoaccepts them as Macaulays? They cannot seize the secret of his charm, because that charm lies in the felicity of his talent, not in thestructure of his sentences; in the fulness of his knowledge, not in thecharacter of his illustrations. Other men aim at ease and vigour bydiscarding Latinisms, and admitting colloquialisms; but vigour and easeare not to be had on recipe. No study of models, no attention to rules, will give the easy turn, the graceful phrase, the simple word, thefervid movement, or the large clearness; a picturesque talent willexpress itself in concrete images; a genial nature will smile inpleasant firms and inuendos; a rapid, unhesitating, imperious mind willdeliver its quick incisive phrases; a full deliberating mind willoverflow in ample paragraphs laden with the weight of parentheses andqualifying suggestions. The style which is good in one case would bevicious in another. The broken rhythm which increases the energy of onestyle would ruin the LARGO of another. Both are excellencies where bothare natural. 

We are always disagreeably impressed by an obvious imitation of themanner of another, because we feel it to be an insincerity, and alsobecause it withdraws our attention from the thing said, to the way ofsaying it. And here lies the great lesson writers have tolearn--namely, that they should think of the immediate purpose of theirwriting, which is to convey truths and emotions, in symbols and images, intelligible and suggestive. The racket-player keeps his eye on theball he is to strike, not on the racket with which he strikes. If thewriter sees vividly, and will say honestly what he sees, and how hesees it, he may want something of the grace and felicity of other men, but he will have all the strength and felicity with which nature hasendowed him. More than that he cannot attain, and he will fall veryshort of it in snatching at the grace which is another's. Do what hewill, he cannot escape from the infirmities of his own mind: theaffectation, arrogance, ostentation, hesitation, native in the man willtaint his style, no matter how closely he may copy the manner ofanother. For evil and for good, LE STYLE EST DE L'HOMME MEME. 

The French critics, who are singularly servile to all establishedreputations, and whose unreasoning idolatry of their own classics isone of the reasons why their Literature is not richer, are fond ofdeclaring with magisterial emphasis that the rules of good taste andthe canons of style were fixed once and for ever by their great writersin the seventeenth century. The true ambition of every modern is saidto be by careful study of these models to approach (though with no hopeof equalling) their chastity and elegance. That a writer of thenineteenth century should express himself in the manner which wasadmirable in the seventeenth is an absurdity which needs only to bestated. It is not worth refuting. But it never presents itself thus tothe French. In their minds it is a lingering remnant of that oldersuperstition which believed the Ancients to have discovered all wisdom, so that if we could only surprise the secret of Aristotle's thoughtsand clearly comprehend the drift of Plato's theories (which unhappilywas not clear) we should compass all knowledge. How long thissuperstition lasted cannot accurately be settled; perhaps it is notquite extinct even yet; but we know how little the most earneststudents succeeded in surprising the secrets of the universe by readingGreek treatises, and how much by studying the universe itself. Advancing Science daily discredits the superstition; yet the advance ofCriticism has not yet wholly discredited the parallel superstition inArt. The earliest thinkers are no longer considered the wisest, but theearliest artists are still proclaimed the finest. Even those who do notbelieve in this superiority are, for the most part, overawed bytradition and dare not openly question the supremacy of works which intheir private convictions hold a very subordinate rank. And thisreserve is encouraged by the intemperate scorn of those who questionthe supremacy without having the knowledge or the sympathy which couldfairly appreciate the earlier artists. Attacks on the classics by menignorant of the classical languages tend to perpetuate the superstition. 

But be the merit of the classics, ancient and modern, what it may, nowriter can become a classic by imitating them. The principle ofSincerity here ministers to the principle of Beauty by forbiddingimitation and enforcing rivalry. Write what you can, and if you havethe grace of felicitous expression or the power of energetic expressionyour style will be admirable and admired. At any rate see that it beyour own, and not another's; on no other terms will the world listen toit. You cannot be eloquent by borrowing from the opulence of another;you cannot be humorous by mimicking the whims of another; what was apleasant smile dimpling his features becomes a grimace on yours. 

It will not be supposed that I would have the great writersdisregardod, as if nothing were to be learned from them; but the studyof great writers should be the study of general principles asillustrated or revealed in these writers; and if properly pursued itwill of itself lead to a condemnation of the notion of models. What wemay learn from them is a nice discrimination of the symbols whichintelligibly express the shades of meaning and kindle emotion. Thewriter wishes to give his thoughts a literary form. This is for others, not for himself; consequently he must, before all things, desire to beintelligible, and to be so he must adapt his expressions to the mentalcondition of his audience. If he employs arbitrary symbols, such as oldwords in new and unexpected senses, he may be clear as daylight tohimself, but to others, dark as fog. And the difficulty of originalwriting lies in this, that what is new and individual must findexpression in old symbols. This difficulty can only be mastered by apeculiar talent, strengthened and rendered nimble by practice, and thecommerce with original minds. Great writers should be our companions ifwe would learn to write greatly; but no familiarity with their mannerwill supply the place of native endowment. Writers are born, no lessthan poets, and like poets, they learn to make their native giftseffective. Practice, aiding their vigilant sensibility, teaches them, perhaps unconsciously, certain methods of effective presentation, howone arrangement of words carries with it more power than another, howfamiliar and concrete expressions are demanded in one place, and inanother place abstract expressions unclogged with disturbingsuggestions. Every author thus silently amasses a store of empiricalrules, furnished by his own practice, and confirmed by the practice ofothers. A true Philosophy of Criticism would reduce these empiricalrules to science by ranging them under psychological laws, thusdemonstrating the validity of the rules, not in virtue of their havingbeen employed by Cicero or Addison, by Burke or Sydney Smith, but invirtue of their conformity with the constancies of human nature. 

The importance of Style is generally unsuspected by philosophers andmen of science, who are quite aware of its advantage in all departmentsof BELLES LETTRES; and if you allude in their presence to thedeplorably defective presentation of the ideas in some workdistinguished for its learning, its profundity or its novelty, it isprobable that you will be despised as a frivolous setter up of mannerover matter, a light-minded DILLETANTE, unfitted for the simpleausterities of science. But this is itself a light-minded contempt; adeeper insight would change the tone, and help to remove thedisgraceful slovenliness and feebleness of composition which deface themajority of grave works, except those written by Frenchmen, who havebeen taught that composition is an art and that no writer may neglectit. In England and Germany, men who will spare no labour in research, grudge all labour in style; a morning is cheerfully devoted toverifying a quotation, by one who will not spare ten minutes toreconstruct a clumsy sentence; a reference is sought with ardour, anappropriate expression in lleu of the inexact phrase which firstsuggests itself does not seem worth seeking. What are we to say to aman who spends a quarter's income on a diamond pin which he sticks in agreasy cravat? A man who calls public attention on him, and appears ina slovenly undress? Am I to bestow applause on some insignificantparade of erudition, and withhold blame from the stupidities of stylewhich surround it?

Had there been a clear understanding of Style as the living body ofthought, and not its "dress, " which might be more or less ornamental, the error I am noticing would not have spread so widely. But, naturally, when men regarded the grace of style as mere grace ofmanner, and not as the delicate precision giving form and relief tomatter--as mere ornament, stuck on to arrest incurious eyes, and not aseffective expression--their sense of the deeper value of matter madethem despise such aid. A clearer conception would have rectified thiserror. The matter is confluent with the manner; and only THROUGH thestyle can thought reach the reader's mind. If the manner is involved, awkward, abrupt, obscure, the reader will either be oppressed with aconfused sense of cumbrous material which awaits an artist to give itshape, or he will have the labour thrown upon him of extricating thematerial and reshaping it in his own mind. 

How entirely men misconceive the relation of style to thought may beseen in the replies they make when their writing is objected to, or inthe ludicrous attempts of clumsy playfulness and tawdry eloquence whenthey wish to be regarded as writers. 

"Le style le moins noble a pourtant sa noblesse, "

and the principle of Sincerity, not less than the suggestions of taste, will preserve the integrity of each style. A philosopher, aninvestigator, an historian, or a moralist so far from being required topresent the graces of a wit, an essayist, a pamphleteer, or a novelist, would be warned off such ground by the necessity of expressing himselfsincerely. Pascal, Biot, Buffon, or Laplace are examples of theclearness and beauty with which ideas may be presented wearing all thegraces of fine literature, and losing none of the severity of science. Bacon, also, having an opulent and active intellect, spontaneouslyexpressed himself in forms of various excellence. But what a pitiablecontrast is presented by Kant! It is true that Kant having a muchnarrower range of sensibility could have no such ample resource ofexpression, and he was wise in not attempting to rival the splendour ofthe NOVUM ORGANUM; but he was not simply unwise, he was extremelyculpable in sending forth his thoughts as so much raw material whichthe public was invited to put into shape as it could. Had he been awarethat much of his bad writing was imperfect thinking, and alwaysimperfect adaptation of means to ends, he might have been induced torecast it into more logical and more intelligible sentences, whichwould have stimulated the reader's mind as much as they now oppress it. Nor had Kant the excuse of a subject too abstruse for clearpresentation. The examples of Descartes, Spinoza, Hobbes, and Hume areenough to show how such subjects can be mastered, and the veryimplication of writing a book is that the writer has mastered hismaterial and can give it intelligible form. 

A grave treatise, dealing with a narrow range of subjects or movingamid severe abstractions, demands a gravity and severity of style whichis dissimilar to that demanded by subjects of a wider scope or moreimpassioned impulse; but abstract philosophy has its appropriateelegance no less than mathematics. I do not mean that each subjectshould necessarily be confined to one special mode of treatment, in thesense which was understood when people spoke of the "dignity ofhistory, " and so forth. The style must express the writer's mind; andas variously constituted minds will treat one and the same subject, there will be varieties in their styles. If a severe thinker be also aman of wit, like Bacon, Hobbes, Pascal, or Galileo, the wit will flashits sudden illuminations on the argument; but if he be not a man ofwit, and condescends to jest under the impression that by jesting he isgiving an airy grace to his argument, we resent it as an impertinence. 

I have throughout used Style in the narrower sense of expression ratherthan in the wider sense of "treatment" which is sometimes affixed toit. The mode of treating a subject is also no doubt the writer's or theartist's way of expressing what is in his mind, but this is Style inthe more general sense, and does not admit of being reduced to lawsapart from those of Vision and Sincerity. A man necessarily sees asubject in a particular light--ideal or grotesque, familiar orfanciful, tragic or humorous, he may wander into fairy-land, or moveamid representative abstractions; he may follow his wayward fancy inits grotesque combinations, or he may settle down amid the homeliestdetails of daily life. But having chosen he must be true to his choice. He is not allowed to represent fairy-land as if it resembled Walworth, nor to paint Walworth in the colours of Venice. The truth ofconsistency must be preserved in his treatment, truth in art meaning ofcourse only truth within the limits of the art; thus the painter mayproduce the utmost relief he can by means of light and shade, but isperemptorily forbidden to use actual solidities on a plane surface. Hemust represent gold by colour, not by sticking gold on his fIgures. [This was done with naivete by the early painters, and is really veryeffective in the pictures of Gentile da Fabriano--that Paul Veronese ofthe fifteenth century--as the reader will confess if he has seen the"Adoration of the Magi, " in the Florence Academy; but it could not betolerated now]. Our applause is greatly determined by our sense ofdifficulty overcome, and to stick gold on a picture is an avoidance ofthe difficulty of painting it. 

Truth of presentation has an inexplicable charm for us, and throws ahalo round even ignoble objects. A policeman idly standing at thecorner of the street, or a sow lazily sleeping against the sun, are notin nature objects to excite a thrill of delight, but a painter may, bythe cunning of his art, represent them so as to delight everyspectator. The same objects represented by an inferior painter willmove only a languid interest; by a still more inferior painter they maybe represented so as to please none but the most uncultivated eye. Eachspectator is charmed in proportion to his recognition of a triumph overdifficulty which is measured by the degree of verisimilitude. Thedegrees are many. In the lowest the pictured object is so remote fromthe reality that we simply recognise what the artist meant torepresent. In like manner we recognise in poor novels and dramas whatthe authors mean to be characters, rather than what our experience oflife suggests as characteristic. 

Not only do we apportion our applause according to the degree ofversimilitude attained, but also according to the difficulty eachinvolves. It is a higher difficulty, and implies a nobler art torepresent the movement and complexity of life and emotion than to catchthe fixed lineaments of outward aspect. To paint a policeman idlylounging at the street corner with such verisimilitude that we arepleased with the representation, admiring the solidity of the figure, the texture of the clothes, and the human aspect of the features, is sodifficult that we loudly applaud the skill which enables an artist toimitate what in itself is uninteresting; and if the imitation becarried to a certain degree of verisimilitude the picture may be ofimmense value. But no excellence of representation can make this highart. To carry it into the region of high art, another and far greaterdifficulty must be overcome; the man must be represented under thestrain of great emotion, and we must recognise an equal truthfulness inthe subtle indications of great mental agitation, the fleetingcharacters of which are far less easy to observe and to reproduce, thanthe stationary characters of form and costume. We may often observe howthe novelist or dramatist has tolerable success so long as hispersonages are quiet, or moved only by the vulgar motives of ordinarylife, and how fatally uninteresting, because unreal, these verypersonages become as soon as they are exhibited under the stress ofemotion: their language ceases at once to be truthful, and becomesstagey; their conduct is no longer recognisable as that of human beingssuch as we have known. Here we note a defect of treatment, a minglingof styles, arising partly from defect of vision, and partly from animperfect sincerity; and success in art will always be found dependenton integrity of style. The Dutch painters, so admirable in their ownstyle, would become pitiable on quitting it for a higher. 

But I need not enter at any length upon this subject of treatment. Obviously a work must have charm or it cannot succeed; and the charmwill depend on very complex conditions in the artist's mind. Whattreatment is in Art, composition is in Philosophy. The generalconception of the point of view, and the skilful distribution of themasses, so as to secure the due preparation, development, andculmination, without wasteful prodigality or confusing want ofsymmetry, constitute Composition, which is to the structure of atreatise what Style--in the narrower sense--is to the structure ofsentences. How far Style is reducible to law will be examined in thenext chapter. 

EDITOR. 

THE LAWS OF STYLE. 

From what was said in the preceding chapter, the reader will understandthat our present inquiry is only into the laws which regulate themechanism of Style. In such an analysis all that constitutes theindividuality, the life, the charm of a great writer, must escape. Butwe may dissect Style, as we dissect an organism, and lay bare thefundamental laws by which each is regulated. And this analogy mayindicate the utility of our attempt; the grace and luminousness of ahappy talent will no more be acquired by a knowledge of these laws, than the force and elasticity of a healthy organism will be given by aknowledge of anatomy; but the mistakes in Style, and the diseases ofthe organism, may be often avoided, and sometimes remedied, by suchknowledge. 

On a subject like this, which has for many years engaged the researchesof many minds, I shall not be expected to bring forward discoveries;indeed, novelty would not unjustly be suspected of fallacy. The onlyclaim my exposition can have on the reader's attention is that of beingan attempt to systematise what has been hitherto either empiricalobservation, or the establishment of critical rules on a false basis. Iknow but of one exception to this sweeping censure, and that is theessay on the Philosophy of Style, by Mr. Herbert Spencer, [Spencer'sESSAYS: SCIENTIFIC, POLITICAL, AND SPECULATIVE. First Series. 1858]. Where for the first time, I believe, the right method was pursued ofseeking in psychological conditions for the true laws of expression. 

The aims of Literature being instruction and delight, Style must invarying degrees appeal to our intellect and our sensibilities, sometimes reaching the intellect through the presentation of simpleideas, and at others through the agitating influence of emotions;sometimes awakening the sensibilities through the reflexes of ideas, and sometimes through a direct appeal. A truth may be nakedly expressedso as to stir the intellect alone; or it may be expressed in termswhich, without disturbing its clearness, may appeal to our sensibilityby their harmony or energy. It is not possible to distinguish thecombined influences of clearness, movement, and harmony, so as toassign to each its relative effect; and if in the ensuing pages one lawis isolated from another, this must be understood as an artificeinevitable in such investigations. 

There are five laws under which all the conditions of Style may begrouped. --1. The Law of Economy. 2. The Law of Simplicity. 3. The Lawof Sequence. 4, The Law of Climax. 5. The Law of Variety. 

It would be easy to reduce these five to three, and range allconsiderations under Economy, Climax, and Variety; or we might amplifythe divisions; but there are reasons of convenience as well as symmetrywhich give a preference to the five. I had arranged them thus forconvenience some years ago, and I now find they express the equivalenceof the two great factors of Style---Intelligence and Sensibility. Twoout of the five, Economy and Simplicity, more specially derive theirsignificance from intellectual needs; another two, Climax and Variety, from emotional needs; and between these is the Law of Sequence, whichis intermediate in its nature, and may be claimed with equal justice byboth. The laws of force and the laws of pleasure can only beprovisionally isolated in our inquiry; in style they are blended. Thefollowing brief estimate of each considers it as an isolated principleundetermined by any other. 

1. THE LAW OF ECONOMY. 

Our inquiry is scientific, not empirical; it therefore seeks thepsychological basis for every law, endeavouring to ascertain whatcondition of a reader's receptivity determines the law. Fortunately forus, in the case of the first and most important law the psychologicalbasis is extremely simple, and may be easily appreciated by a referenceto its analogue in Mechanics. 

What is the first object of a machine? Effective work--VIS VIVA. Everymeans by which friction can be reduced, and the force thus economisedbe rendered available, necessarily solicits the constructor's care. Heseeks as far as possible to liberate the motion which is absorbed inthe working of the machine, and to use it as VIS VIVA. He knows thatevery superfluous detail, every retarding influence, is at the cost ofso much power, and is a mechanical defect though it may perhaps be anaesthetic beauty or a practical convenience. He may retain it becauseof the beauty, because of the convenience, but he knows the price ofeffective power at which it is obtained. 

And thus it stands with Style. The first object of a writer iseffective expression, the power of communicating distinct thoughts andemotional suggestions. He has to overcome the friction of ignorance andpre-occupation. He has to arrest a wandering attention, and to clearaway the misconceptions which cling around verbal symbols. Words arenot llke iron and wood, coal and water, invariable in their properties, calculable in their effects. They are mutable in their powers, derivingforce and subtle variations of force from very trifling changes ofposition; colouring and coloured by the words which precede andsucceed; significant or insignificant from the powers of rhythm andcadence. It is the writer's art so to arrange words that they shallsuffer the least possible retardation from the inevitable friction ofthe reader's mind. The analogy of a machine is perfect. In both casesthe object is to secure the maximum of disposable force, by diminishingthe amount absorbed in the working. Obviously, if a reader is engagedin extricating the meaning from a sentence which ought to havereflected its meaning as in a mirror, the mental energy thus employedis abstracted from the amount of force which he has to bestow on thesubject; he has mentally to form anew the sentence which has beenclumsily formed by the writer; he wastes, on interpretation of thesymbols, force which might have been concentrated on meditation of thepropositions. This waste is inappreciable in writing of ordinaryexcellence, and on subjects not severely tasking to the attention; butif inappreciable, it is always waste; and in bad writing, especially ontopics of philosophy and science, the waste is important. And it isthis which greatly narrows the circle for serious works. Interest inthe subjects treated of may not be wanting; but the abundant energy iswanting which to the fatigue of consecutive thinking will add thelabour of deciphering the language. Many of us are but too familiarwith the fatigue of reconstructing unwieldy sentences in which theclauses are not logically dependent, nor the terms free from equivoque;we know what it is to have to hunt for the meaning hidden in a maze ofwords; and we can understand the yawning indifference which must soonsettle upon every reader of such writing, unless he has some strongexternal impulse or abundant energy. 

Economy dictates that the meaning should be presented in a form whichclaims the least possible attention to itself as form, unless when thatform is part of the writer's object, and when the simple thought isless important than the manner of presenting it. And even when themanner is playful or impassioned, the law of Economy still presides, and insists on the rejection of whatever is superfluous. Only adelicate susceptibility can discriminate a superfluity in passages ofhumour or rhetoric; but elsewhere a very ordinary understanding canrecognise the clauses and the epithets which are out of place, and inexcess, retarding or confusing the direct appreciation of the thought. If we have written a clumsy or confused sentence, we shall often findthat the removal of an awkward inversion liberates the ides, or thatthe modification of a cadence increases the effect. This is sometimesstrikingly seen at the rehearsal of a play: a passage which has fallenflat upon the ear is suddenly brightened into effectiveness by theremoval of a superfluous phrase, which, by its retarding influence, hadthwarted the declamatory crescendo. 

Young writers may learn something of the secrets of Economy by carefulrevision of their own compositions, and by careful dissection ofpassages selected both from good and bad writers. They have simply tostrike out every word, every clause, and every sentence, the removal ofwhich will not carry away any of the constituent elements of thethought. Having done this, let them compare the revised with theunrevised passages, and see where the excision has improved, and whereit has injured, the effect. For Economy, although a primal law, is notthe only law of Style. It is subject to various limitations from thepressure of other laws; and thus the removal of a trifling superfluitywill not be justified by a wise economy if that loss entails adissonance, or prevents a climax, or robs the expression of its easeand variety. Economy is rejection of whatever is superfluous; it is notMiserliness. A liberal expenditure is often the best economy, and isalways so when dictated by a generous impulse, not by a prodigalcarelessness or ostentatious vanity. That man would greatly err whotried to make his style effective by stripping it of all redundancy andornament, presenting it naked before the indifferent public. Perhapsthe very redundancy which he lops away might have aided the reader tosee the thought more clearly, because it would have kept the thought alittle longer before his mind, and thus prevented him from hurrying onto the next while this one was still imperfectly conceived. 

As a general rule, redundancy is injurious; and the reason of the rulewill enable us to discriminate when redundancy is injurious and whenbeneficial. It is injurious when it hampers the rapid movement of thereader's mind, diverting his attention to some collateral detail. Butit is beneficial when its retarding influence is such as only to detainthe mind longer on the thought, and thus to secure the fuller effect ofthe thought. For rapid reading is often imperfect reading. The mind issatisfied with a glimpse of that which it ought to have steadilycontemplated; and any artifice by which the thought can be kept longenough before the mind, may indeed be a redundancy as regards themeaning, but is an economy of power. Thus we see that the phrase or theclause which we might be tempted to lop away because it threw no lightupon the proposition, would be retained by a skilful writer because itadded power. You may know the character of a redundancy by this onetest: does it divert the attention, or simply retard it? The former isalways a loss of power; the latter is sometlmes a gain of power. Theart of the writer consists in rejecting all redundancies that do notconduce to clearness. The shortest sentences are not necessarily theclearest. Concision gives energy, but it also adds restraint. Thelabour of expanding a terse sentence to its full meaning is oftengreater than the labour of picking out the meaning from a diffuse andloitering passage. Tacitus is more tiresome than Cicero. 

There are occasions when the simplest and fewest words surpass ineffect all the wealth of rhetorical amplification. An example may beseen in the passage which has been a favourite illustration from thedays of Longinus to our own. "God said: Let there be light! and therewas light. " This is a conception of power so calm and simple that itneeds only to be presented in the fewest and the plainest words, andwould be confused or weakened by any suggestion of accessories. Let usamplify the expression in the redundant style of miscalled eloquentwriters: "God, in the magnificent fulness of creative energy, exclaimed: Let there be light! and lo! the agitating fiat immediatelywent forth, and thus in one indivisible moment the whole universe wasillumlned. " We have here a sentence which I am certain many a writerwould, in secret, prefer to the masterly plainness of Genesis. It isnot a sentence which would have captivated critics. 

Although this sentence from Genesis is sublime in its simplicity, weare not to conclude that simple sentences are uniformly the best, orthat a style composed of propositions briefly expressed would obey awise Economy. The reader's pleasure must not be forgotten; and hecannot be pleased by a style which always leaps and never flows. Aharsh, abrupt, and dislocated manner irritates and perplexes him by itssudden jerks. It is easier to write short sentences than to read them. An easy, fluent, and harmonious phrase steals unobtrusively upon themind, and allows the thought to expand quietly like an opening flower. But the very suasiveness of harmonious writing needs to be varied lestit become a drowsy monotony; and the sharp short sentences which areintolerable when abundant, when used sparingly act like a trumpet-callto the drooping attention. 

II. THE LAW OF SIMPLICITY. 

The first obligation of Economy is that of using the fewest words tosecure the fullest effect. It rejects whatever is superfluous; but thequestion of superfluity must, as I showed just now, be determined ineach individual case by various conditions too complex and numerous tobe reduced within a formula. The same may be said of Simplicity, whichis indeed so intimately allied with Economy that I have only given it aseparate station for purposes of convenience. The psychological basisis the same for both. The desire for simplicity is impatience atsuperfluity, and the impatience arises from a sense of hindrance. 

The first obligation of Simplicity is that of using the simplest meansto secure the fullest effect. But although the mind instinctlvelyrejects all needless complexity, we shall greatly err if we fail torecognise the fact, that what the mind recoils from is not thecomplexity, but the needlessness. When two men are set to the work ofone, there is a waste of means; when two phrases are used to expressone meaning twice, there is a waste of power; when incidents aremultiplied and illustrations crowded without increase of illumination, there is prodigality which only the vulgar can mistake for opulence. Simplicity is a relative term. If in sketching the head of a man theartist wishes only to convey the general characteristics of that head, the fewest touches show the greatest power, selecting as they do onlythose details which carry with them characteristic significance. Themeans are simple, as the effect is simple. But if, besides the generalcharacteristics, he wishes to convey the modelling of the forms, theplay of light and shade, the textures, and the very complex effect of ahuman head, he must use more complex means. The simplicity which wasadequate in the one case becomes totally inadequate in the other. 

Obvious as this is, it has not been sufficiently present to the mind ofcritics who have called for plain, familiar, and concrete diction, asif that alone could claim to be simple; who have demanded a styleunadorned by the artifices of involution, cadence, imagery, andepigram, as if Simplicity were incompatible with these; and havepraised meagreness, mistaking it for Simplicity. Saxon words are wordswhich in their homeliness have deep-seated power, and in some placesthey are the simplest because the most powerful words we can employ;but their very homeliness excludes them from certain places where theirvery power of suggestion is a disturbance of the general effect. Theselective instinct of the artist tells him when his language should behomely, and when it should be more elevated; and it is precisely in theimperceptible blending of the plain with the ornate that a great writeris distinguished. He uses the simplest phrases without triviality, andthe grandest without a suggestion of grandiloquence. 

Simplicity of Style will therefore be understood as meaning absence ofneedless superfluity:

"Without o'erflowing full. "

Its plainness is never meagreness, but unity. Obedient to the primaryimpulse of ADEQUATE expression, the style of a complex subject shouldbe complex; of a technical subject, technical; of an abstract subject, abstract; of a familiar subject, familiar; of a pictorial subject, picturesque. The structure of the "Antigone" is simple; but so also isthe structure of "Othello, " though it contains many more elements; thesimplicity of both lies in their fulness without superfluity. 

Whatever is outside the purpose, or the feeling, of a scene, a speech, a sentence, or a phrase, whatever may be omitted without sacrifice ofeffect, is a sin against this law. I do not say that the incident, description, or dialogue, which may be omitted without injury to theunity of the work, is necessarily a sin against art; still less that, even when acknowledged as a sin, it may not sometimes be condoned byits success. The law of Simplicity is not the only law of art; and, moreover, audiences are, unhappily, so little accustomed to judge worksas wholes, and so ready to seize upon any detail which pleases them, nomatter how incongruously the detail may be placed, ["Was hilft's, wenn ihr ein Ganzes dargebracht!Das I'ublicum wird es euch doch zerpfiucken. "--GOETHE]. 

that a felicitous fault will captivate applause, let critics shakereproving heads as they may. Nevertheless the law of Simplicity remainsunshaken, and ought only to give way to the pressure of the law ofVariety. 

The drama offers a good opportunity for studying the operation of thislaw, because the limitations of time compel the dramatist to attendclosely to what is and what is not needful for his purpose. A dramamust compress into two or three hours material which may be diffusedthrough three volumes of a novel, because spectators are more impatientthan readers, and more unequivocally resent by their signs of wearinessany disregard of economy, which in the novel may be skipped. Thedramatist having little time in which to evolve his story, feels thatevery scene which does not forward the progress of the action orintensify the interest in the characters is an artistic defect; thoughin itself it may be charmingly written, and may excite applause, it isaway from his immediate purpose. And what is true of purposeless scenesand characters which divert the current of progress, is equally true, in a minor degree, of speeches and sentences which arrest theculminating interest by calling attention away to other objects. It isan error which arises from a deficient earnestness on the writer'spart, or from a too pliant facility. The DRAMATIS PERSONAE wander intheir dialogue, not swayed by the fluctuations of feeling, but by theauthor's desire to show his wit and wisdom, or else by his want ofpower to control the vagrant suggestions of his fancy. The desire fordisplay and the inability to control are weaknesses that lead to almostevery transgression of Simplicity; but sometimes the transgressions aremade in more or less conscious obedience to the law of Variety, although the highest reach of art is to secure variety by an opulentsimplicity. 

The novelist is not under the same limitations of time, nor has heto contend against the same mental impatience on the part of hispublic. He may therefore linger where the dramatist must hurry; he maydigress, and gain fresh impetus from the digression, where thedramatist would seriously endanger the effect of his scene by retardingits evolution. The novelist with a prudent prodigality may employdescriptions, dialogues, and episodes, which would be fatal in a drama. Characters may be introduced and dismissed without having any importantconnection with the plot; it is enough if they serve the purpose of thechapter in which they appear. Although as a matter of fine art nocharacter should have a place in a novel unless it form an integralelement of the story, and no episode should be introduced unless itreflects some strong light on the characters or incidents, this is acritical demand which only fine artists think of satisfying, and onlydelicate tastes appreciate. For the mass of readers it is enough ifthey are mused; and indeed all readers, no matter how critical theirtaste, would rather be pleased by a transgression of the law thanwearied by prescription. Delight condones offence. The only questionfor the writer is, whether the offence is so trivial as to be submergedin the delight. And he will do well to remember that the greaterflexibility belonging to the novel by no means removes the novel fromthe laws which rule the drama. The parts of a novel should have organicrelations. Push the licence to excess, and stitch together a volume ofunrelated chapters, --a patchwork of descriptions, dialogues, andincidents, --no one will call that a novel; and the less the work has ofthis unorganised character the greater will be its value, not only inthe eyes of critics, but in its effect on the emotions of the reader. 

Simplicity of structure means organic unity, whether the organism besimple or complex; and hence in all times the emphasis which criticshave laid upon Simplicity, though they have not unfrequently confoundedit with narrowness of range. In like manner, as we said just now, whentreating of diction they have overlooked the fact that the simplestmust be that which best expresses the thought. Simplicity of diction isintegrity of speech; that which admits of least equivocation, thatwhich by the clearest verbal symbols most readily calls up in thereader's mind the images and feelings which the writer wishes to callup. Such diction may be concrete or abstract, familiar or technical;its simplicity is determined by the nature of the thought. We shalloften be simpler in using abstract and technical terms than in usingconcrete and familiar terms which by their very concreteness andfamiliarity call up images and feelings foreign to our immediatepurpose. If we desire the attention to fall upon some general idea weonly blur its outlines by using words that call up particulars. Thus, although it may be needful to give some definite direction to thereader's thoughts by the suggestion of a particular fact, we must becareful not to arrest his attention on the fact itself, still less todivert it by calling up vivid images of facts unrelated to our presentpurpose. For example, I wish to fix in the reader's mind a conceptionof a lonely meditative man walking on the sea-shore, and I fall intothe vicious style of our day which is lauded as word-painting, andwrite something like this :--

"The fishermen mending their storm-beaten boats upon the shore wouldlay down the hammer to gaze after him as he passed abstractedly beforetheir huts, his hair streaming in the salt breeze, his feet crushingthe scattered seaweed, his eyes dreamily fixed upon the purple heightsof the precipitous crags. "

Now it is obvious that the details here assembled are mostly foreign tomy purpose, which has nothing whatever to do with fishermen, storms, boats, sea-weeds, or purple crags; and by calling up images of these Ionly divert the attention from my thought. Whereas, if it had been mypurpose to picture the scene itself, or the man's delight in it, thenthe enumeration of details would give colour and distinctness to thepicture. 

The art of a great writer is seen in the perfect fitness of hisexpressions. He knows how to blend vividness with vagueness, knowswhere images are needed, and where by their vivacity they would beobstacles to the rapid appreciation of his thought. The value ofconcrete illustration artfully used may be seen illustrated in apassage from Macaulay's invective against Frederick the Great: "On hishead is all the blood which was shod in a war which raged during manyyears and in every quarter of the globe, the blood of the column atFentonoy, the blood of the mountaineers who were slaughtered atCulloden. The evils produced by his wickedness were felt in lands wherethe name of Prussia was unknown; and in order that he might rob aneighbour whom he had promised to defend, black men fought on the coastof Coromandel and red men scalped each other by the great lakes ofNorth America. " Disregarding the justice or injustice of the thought, note the singular force and beauty of this passage, delightful alike toear and mind; and observe how its very elaborateness has the effect ofthe finest simplicity, because the successive pictures are constituentsof the general thought, and by their vividness render the conclusionmore impressive. Let us suppose him to have wrltten with the vaguegenerality of expression much patronised by dignified historians, andtold us that "Frederick was the cause of great European conflictsextending over long periods; and in consequence of his politicalaggression hideous crimes were perpetrated in the most distant parts ofthe globe. " This absence of concrete images would not have beensimplicity, inasmuch as the labour of converting the generalexpressions into definite meanings would thus have been thrown upon thereader. 

Pictorial illustration has its dangers, as we daily see in the clumsyimitators of Macaulay, who have not the fine instinct of style, butobey the vulgar instinct of display, and imagine they can produce abrilliant effect by the use of strong lights, whereas they distract theattention with images alien to the general impression, just as crudecolourists vex the eye with importunate splendours. Nay, even goodwriters sometimes sacrifice the large effect of a diffusive light tothe small effect of a brilliant point. This is a defect of tastefrequently noticeable in two very good writers, De Quincey and Ruskin, whose command of expression is so varied that it tempts them intoFIORITURA as flexibility of voice tempts singers to sin againstsimplicity. At the close of an eloquent passage De Quincey writes :--

"Gravitation that works without holiday for ever and searches everycorner of the universe, what intellect can follow it to its fountains?And yet, shyer than gravitation, less to be counted on than thefluxions of sun-dials, stealthier than the growth of a forest, are thefootsteps of Christianity amongst the political workings of man. "

The association of holidays and shyness with an idea so abstract asthat of gravitation, the use of the learned word fluxions to expressthe movements of the shadows on a dial, and the discordant suggestionof stealthiness applied to vegetable growth and Christianity, are somany offences against simplicity. Let the passage be contrasted withone in which wealth of imagery is in accordance with the thought itexpresses:--

"In the edifices of man there should be found reverent worship andfollowing, not only of the spirit which rounds the pillars of theforest, and arches the vault of the avenue--which gives veining to theleaf and polish to the shell, and grace to every pulse that agitatesanimal organisation but of that also which reproves the pillars of theearth, and builds up her barren precipices into the coldness of theclouds, and lifts her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the palearch of the sky; for these and other glories more than these refuse notto connect themselves in his thoughts with the work of his own hand;the grey cliff loses not its nobleness when it reminds us of someCyclopoan waste of mural stone; the pinnacles of the rocky promontoryarrange themselves, undegraded, into fantastic semblances of fortresstowns; and even the awful cone of the far-off mountain has a melancholymixed with that of its own solitude, which is cast from the images ofnameless tumuli on white sea-shores, and of the heaps of reedy clayinto which chambered cities melt in their mortality. " [Ruskin]. 

I shall notice but two points in this singularly beautiful passage. Theone is the exquisite instinct of Sequence in several of the phrases, not only as to harmony, but as to the evolution of the meaning, especially in "builds up her barren precipices into the coldness of theclouds, and lifts her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the palearch of the sky. " The other is the injurious effect of three words inthe sentence, "for these and other glories more than these REFUSE NOTTO connect themselves in his thoughts. " Strike out the words printed initalics, and you not only improve the harmony, but free the sentencefrom a disturbing use of what Ruskin has named the "pathetic fallacy. "There are times in which Nature may be assumed as in sympathy with ourmoods; and at such times the pathetic fallacy is a source of subtleeffect. But in the passage just quoted the introduction seems to me amistake: the simplicity of the thought is disturbed by this hint of anactive participation of Nature in man's feelings; it is preserved inits integrity by the omission of that hint. 

These illustrations will suffice to show how the law we are consideringwill command and forbid the use of concrete expressions and vividimagery according to the purpose of the writer. A fine taste guided bySincerity will determine that use. Nothing more than a general rule canbe laid down. Eloquence, as I said before, cannot spring from thesimple desire to be eloquent; the desire usually leads tograndiloquence. But Sincerity will save us. We have but to rememberMontesquieu's advice: "Il faut prendre garde aux grandes phrases dansles humbles sujets; elles produisent l'effet d'une masque a barbeblanche sur la joue d'un enfant. "

Here another warning may be placed. In our anxiety lest we err on theside of grandiloquence we may perhaps fall into the opposite error oftameness. Sincerity will save us here also. Let us but express thethought and feeling actually in our minds, then our very grandiloquence(if that is our weakness) will have a certain movement and vivacity notwithout effect, and our tameness (if we are tame) will have agentleness not without its charm. 

Finally, let us banish from our critical superstitions the notion thatchastity of composition, or simplicity of Style, is in any respectallied to timidity. There are two kinds of timidity, or rather it hastwo different origins, both of which cripple the free movement ofthought. The one is the timidity of fastidiousness, the other of placidstupidity: the one shrinks from originality lest it should be regardedas impertinent; the other lest, being new, it should be wrong. Wedetect the one in the sensitive discreetness of the style. We detectthe other in the complacency of its platitudes and the stereotypedcommonness of its metaphors. The writer who is afraid of originalityfeels himself in deep water when he launches into a commonplace. Forhim who is timid because weak, there is no advice, except suggestingthe propriety of silence. For him who is timid because fastidious, there is this advice: get rid of the superstition about chastity, andrecognise the truth that a style may be simple, even if it move amidabstractions, or employ few Saxon words, or abound in concrete imagesand novel turns of expression. 

III. THE LAW OF SEQUENCE. 

Much that might be included under this head would equally well find itsplace under that of Economy or that of Climax. Indeed it is obviousthat to secure perfect Economy there must be that sequence of the wordswhich will present the least obstacle to the unfolding of the thought, and that Climax is only attainable through a properly graduatedsequence. But there is another element we have to take into account, and that is the rhythmical effect of Style. Mr. Herbert Spencer in hisEssay very clearly states the law of Sequence, but I infer that hewould include it entirely under the law of Economy; at any rate hetreats of it solely in reference to intelligibility, and not at all inits scarcely less important relation to harmony. We have A PRIORIreasons, " he says, "for believing that in every sentence there is oneorder of words more effective than any other, and that this order isthe one which presents the elements of the proposition in thesuccession in which they may be most readily put together. As in anarrative, the events should be stated in such sequence that the mindmay not have to go backwards and forwards in order rightly to connectthem; as in a group of sentences, the arrangement should be such thateach of them may be understood as it comes, without waiting for thesubsequent ones; so in every sentence, the sequence of the words shouldbe that which suggests the constituents of the thought in the ordermost convenient for building up that thought. "

But Style appeals to the emotions as well as to the intellect, and thearrangement of words and sentences which will be the most economicalmay not be the most musical, and the most musical may not be the mostpleasurably effective. For Climax and Variety it may be necessary tosacrifice something of rapid intelligibillty: hence involutions, antitheses, and suspensions, which disturb the most orderlyarrangement, may yet, in virtue of their own subtle influences, becounted as improvements on that arrangement. 

Tested by the Intellect and the Feelings, the law of Sequence is seento be a curious compound of the two. If we isolate these elements forthe purposes of exposition, we shall find that the principle of thefirst is much simpler and more easy of obedience than the principle ofthe second. It may be thus stated:--

The constituent elements of the conception expressed in the sentenceand the paragraph should be arranged in strict correspondence with aninductive or a deductive progression. 

All exposition, like all research, is either inductive or deductive. Itgroups particulars so as to lead up to a general conception whichembraces them all, but which could not be fully understood until theyhad been estimated; or else it starts from some general conception, already familar to the mind, and as it moves along, casts its lightupon numerous particulars, which are thus shown to be related to it, but which without that light would have been overlooked. 

If the reader will meditate on that brief statement of the principle, he will, I think, find it explain many doubtful points. Let me merelynotice one, namely, the dispute as to whether the direct or theindirect style should be preferred. Some writers insist, and otherspractise the precept without insistance, that the proposition should bestated first, and all its qualifications as well as its evidences bemade to follow; others maintain that the proposition should be made togrow up step by step with all its evidences and qualifications in theirdue order, and the conclusion disclose itself as crowning the whole. Are not both methods right under different circumstances? If my objectis to convince you of a general truth, or to impress you with afeeling, which you are not already prepared to accept, it is obviousthat the most effective method is the inductive, which leads your mindupon a culminating wave of evidence or emotion to the very point I aimat. But the deductive method is best when I wish to direct the light offamiliar truths and roused emotions, upon new particulars, or upondetails in unsuspected relation to those truths; and when I wish theattention to be absorbed by these particulars which are of interest inthemselves, not upon the general truths which are of no presentinterest except in as far as they light up these details. A growingthought requires the inductive exposition, an applied thought thedeductive. 

This principle, which is of very wide application, is subject to twoimportant qualifications--one pressed on it by the necessities ofClimax and Variety, the other by the feebleness of memory, which cannotkeep a long hold of details unless their significance is apprehended;so that a paragraph of suspended meaning should never be long, and whenthe necessities of the case bring together numerous particulars inevidence of the conclusion, they should be so arranged as to haveculminating force: one clause leading up to another, and throwing itsimpetus into it, instead of being linked on to another, and draggingthe mind down with its weight. 

It is surprising how few men understand that Style is a Fine Art; andhow few of those who are fastidious in their diction give much care tothe arrangement of their sentences, paragraphs, and chapters--in aword, to Composition. The painter distributes his masses with a view togeneral effect; so does the musician: writers seldom do so. Nor do theyusually arrange the members of their sentences in that sequence whichshall secure for each its proper emphasis and its determining influenceon the others--influence reflected back and influence projectedforward. As an example of the charm that lies in unostentatiousantiphony, consider this passage from Ruskin:--"Originality inexpression does not depend on invention of new words; nor originalityin poetry on invention of new measures; nor in painting on invention ofnew colours or new modes of using them. The chords of music, theharmonies of colour, the general principles of the arrangement ofsculptural masses, have been determined long ago, and in allprobability cannot be added to any more than they can be altered. " Menwrite like this by instinct; and I by no means wish to suggest thatwriting like this can be produced by rule. What I suggest is, that inthis, as in every other Fine Art, instinct does mostly find itself inaccordance with rule; and a knowledge of rules helps to direct theblind gropings of feeling, and to correct the occasional mistakes ofinstinct. If, after working his way through a long and involvedsentence in which the meaning is rough hewn, the writer were to try itseffect upon ear and intellect, he might see its defects and re-shape itinto beauty and clearness. But in general men shirk this labour, partlybecause it is irksome, and partly because they have no distinctconception of the rules which would make the labour light. 

The law of Sequence, we have seen, rests upon the two requisites ofClearness and Harmony. Men with a delicate sense of rhythm willinstinctively distribute their phrases in an order that falls agreeablyon the ear, without monotony, and without an echo of other voices; andmen with a keen sense of logical relation will instinctively arrangetheir sentences in an order that best unfolds the meaning. The Frenchare great masters of the law of Sequence, and, did space Permit, Icould cite many excellent examples. One brief passage from RoyerCollard must suffice:--"Les faits que l'observation laisse epars etmuets la causalite les rassemble, les enchaine, leur prete un langage. Chaque fait revele celui qui a precede, prophetise celui qui va suivre. "

The ear is only a guide to the harmony of a Period, and often tempts usinto the feebleness of expletives or approximative expressions for thesake of a cadence. Yet, on the other hand, if we disregard the subtleinfluences of harmonious arrangement, our thoughts lose much of theforce which would otherwise result from their logical subordination. The easy evolution of thought in a melodious period, quietly taking upon its way a variety of incidental details, yet never lingering longenough over them to divert the attention or to suspend the continuouscrescendo of interest, but by subtle influences of proportion allowingeach clause of the sentence its separate significance, is the productof a natural gift, as rare as the gift of music, or of poetry. Butuntil men come to understand that Style is an art, and an amazinglydifficult art, they will continue with careless presumption to tumbleout their sentences as they would lilt stones from a cart, trustingvery much to accident or gravitation for the shapeliness of the result. I will write a passage which may serve as an example of what I mean, although the defect is purposely kept within very ordinary limlts--

"To construct a sentence with many loosely and not obviously dependentclauses, each clause containing an important meaning or a concreteimage the vivacity of which, like a boulder in a shallow stream, disturbs the equable current of thought, and in such a case the morebeautiful the image the greater the obstacle, so that the laws ofsimplicity and economy are violated by it, --while each clause reallyrequires for its interpretation a proposition that is however keptsuspended till the close, is a defect. "

The weariness produced by such writing as this is very great, and yetthe recasting of the passage is easy. Thus:--

"It is a defect when a sentence is constructed with many loosely andnot obviously dependent clauses, each of which requires for itsinterpretation a preposition that is kept suspended till the close; andthis defect is exaggerated when each clause contains an importantmeaning, or a concrete image which, like a boulder in a shallow stream, disturbs the equable current of thought: the more beautiful the image, the greater its violation of the laws of simplicity and economy. "

In this second form the sentence has no long suspension of the mainidea, no diversions of the current. The proposition is stated andillustrated directly, and the mind of the reader follows that of thewriter. How injurious it is to keep the key in your pocket until allthe locks in succession have been displayed may be seen in such asentence as this:--

"Phantoms of lost power, sudden intuitions and shadowy restorations offorgotten feelings, sometimes dim and perplexing, sometimes by brightbut furtive glimpses, sometimes by a full and steady revelationovercharged with light, throw us back in a moment upon scenes andremembrances that we have left full thirty years behind us. "

Had De Quincey liberated our minds from suspense by first presentingthe thought which first arose in his own mind, --namely, that we arethrown back upon scenes and remembrances by phantoms of lost power, &c. --the beauty of his language in its pregnant suggestiveness wouldhave been felt at once. Instead of that, he makes us accompany him indarkness, and when the light appears we have to travel backwards overthe ground again to see what we have passed. The passage continues:--

"In solitudes, and chiefly in the solitudes of nature, and, above all, amongst the great and enduring features of nature, such as mountainsand quiet dells, and the lawny recesses of forests, and the silentshores of lakes--features with which (as being themselves less liableto change) our feelings have a more abiding associatlon, --under thesecircumstances it is that such evanescent hauntings of our forgottenselves are most apt to startle and waylay us. "

The beauty of this passage seems to me marred by the awkward yetnecessary interruption, "under these circumstances it is, " which wouldhave been avoided by opening the sentence with "such evanescenthauntings of our forgotten selves are most apt to startle us insolitudes, " &c. Compare the effect of directness in the following:--

"This was one of the most common shapes of extinguished power fromwhich Coleridge fled to the great city. But sometimes the same decaycame back upon his heart in the more poignant shape of intimations andvanishing glimpses recovered for one moment from the Paradise of youth, and from fields of joy and power, over which for him too certainly hefelt that the cloud of night was settling for ever. "

Obedience to the law of Sequence gives strength by giving clearness andbeauty of rhythm; it economises force and creates music. A verytrifling disregard of it will mar an effect. See an example both ofobedience and trifling disobedience in the following passage fromRuskin:--

"People speak in this working age, when they speak from their hearts, as if houses and lands and food and raiment were alone useful, and asif Sight, Thought, and Admiration were all profitless, so that meninsolently call themselves Utilitarians, who would turn, if they hadtheir way, themselves and their race into vegetables; men who think, asfar as such can be said to think, that the meat is more than life andthe raiment than the body, who look on earth as a stable and to itsfruit as fodder; vinedressers and husbandmen who love the corn theygrind and the grapes they crush better than the gardens of the angelsupon the slopes of Eden. "

It is instinctive to contrast the dislocated sentence, "who would turn, if they had their way, themselves and their race, " with the sentencewhich succeeds it, "men who think, as far as such men can be said tothink, that the meat, " &c. In the latter the parenthetic interruptionis a source of power: it dams the current to increase its force; in theformer the inversion is a loss of power: it is a dissonance to the earand a diversion of the thought. 

As illustrations of Sequence in composition, two passages may be quotedfrom Macaulay which display the power of pictorial suggestions when, instead of diverting attention from the main purpose, they are arrangedwith progressive and culminating effect. 

"Such, or nearly such, was the change which passed on the Mogul empireduring the forty years which followed the death of Aurungzebe. A seriesof nominal sovereigns, sunk in indolence and debauchery, sauntered awaylife in secluded palaces, chewing bang, fondling dancing girls, andlistening to buffoons. A series of ferocious invaders had descendedthrough the western passes to prey on the defenceless wealth ofHindostan. A Persian conqueror crossed the Indus, marched through thegates of Delhi, and bore away in triumph those treasures of which themagnificence had astounded Roe and Bernier;--the peacock throne, onwhich the richest jewels of Golconda had been disposed by the mostskilful hands of Europe, and the inestimable Mountain of Light, which, after many strange vicissitudes, lately shone in the bracelet ofRunjeet Sing, and is now destined to adorn the hideous idol of Prista. The Afghan soon followed to complete the work of devastation which thePersian had begun. The warlike tribe of Rajpoots threw off theMussulman yoke. A band of'mercenary soldiers occupied the Rohilcund. The Seiks ruled on the Indus. The Jauts spread terror along the Jumnah. The high lands which border on the western sea-coast of India pouredforth a yet more formidable race--a race which was long the terror ofevery native power, and which yielded only after many desperate anddoubtful struggles to the fortune and genius of England. It was underthe reign of Aurungzebe that this wild clan of plunderers firstdescended from the mountains; and soon after his death every corner ofhis wide empire learned to tremble at the mighty name of the Mahrattas. Many fertile viceroyalties were entirely subdued by them. Theirdominions stretched across the peninsula from sea to sea. Theircaptains reigned at Poonah, at Gualior, in Guzerat, in Berar, and inTanjore. "

Such prose as this affects us like poetry. The pictures and suggestionsmight possibly have been gathered together by any other historian; butthe artful succession, the perfect sequence, could only have been foundby a fine writer. I pass over a few paragraphs, and pause at thissecond example of a sentence simple in structure, though complex in itselements, fed but not overfed with material, and almost perfect in itscadence and logical connection. "Scarcely any man, however sagacious, would have thought it possible that a trading company, separated fromIndia by fifteen thousand miles of sea, and possessing in India only afew acres for purposes of commerce, would in less than a hundred yearsspread its empire from Cape Comorin to the eternal snows of theHimalayas--would compel Mahratta and Mahomedan to forget their mutualfeuds in common subjection--would tame down even those wild races whichhad resisted the most powerful of the Moguls; and having established agovernment far stronger than any ever known in those countries, wouldcarry its victorious arms far to the east of the Burrampooter, and farto the west of the Hydaspes--dictate terms of peace at the gates ofAva, and seat its vassals on the throne of Candahar. "

Let us see the same principle exhibited in a passage at once pictorialand argumentative. "We know more certainly every day, " says Ruskin, "that whatever appears to us harmful in the universe has somebeneficent or necessary operation; that the storm which destroys aharvest brightens the sunbeams for harvests yet unsown, and that avolcano which buries a city preserves a thousand from destruction. Butthe evil is not for the time less fearful because we have learned it tobe necessary; and we can easily understand the timidity or thetenderness of the spirit which could withdraw itself from the presenceof destruction, and create in its imagination a world of which thepeace should be unbroken, in which the sky should not darken nor thesea rage, in which the leaf should not change nor the blossom wither. That man is greater, however, who contemplates with an equal mind thealternations of terror and of beauty; who, not rejoicing less beneaththe sunny sky, can also bear to watch the bars of twilight narrowing onthe horizon; and, not less sensible to the blessing of the peace ofnature, can rejoice in the magnificence of the ordinances by which thatpeace is protected and secured. But separated from both by animmeasurable distance would be the man who delighted in convulsion anddisease for their own sake; who found his daily food in the disorder ofnature mingled with the suffering of humanity; and watched joyfully atthe right hand of the Angel whose appointed work is to destroy as wellas to accuse, while the corners of the house of feasting were struck bythe wind from the wilderness. "

I will now cite a passage from Burke, which will seem tame after thepictorial animation of the passages from Macaulay and Ruskin; butwhich, because it is simply an exposition of opinions addressed to theunderstanding, will excellently illustrate the principle I amenforcing. He is treating of the dethronement of kings. "As it was notmade for common abuses, so it is not to be agitated by common minds. The speculative line of demarcation, where obedience ought to end andresistance must begin, is faint, obscure, and not easily definable. Itis not a single act or a single event which determines it. Governmentsmust be abused and deranged, indeed, before it can be thought of; andthe prospect of the future must be as bad as the experience of thepast. When things are in that lamentable condition, the nature of thedisease is to indicate the remedy to those whom nature has qualified toadminister in extremities this critical, ambiguous, bitter potion to adistempered state. Times and occasions and provocations will teachtheir own lessons. The wise will determine from the gravity of thecase; the irritable from sensibility to oppression; the high-mindedfrom disdain and indignation at abusive power in unworthy hands; thebrave and bold from love of honourable danger in a generous cause. Butwith or without right, a revolution will be the very last resource ofthe thinking and the good. "

As a final example I will cite a passage from M. Taine:--"De la encorecette insolence contre les inferieurs, et ce mepris verse d'etage enetage depuis le premier jusqu'au dernier. Lorsque dans une societe laloi consacre les conditions inegales, personne n'est exempt d'insulte;le grand seigneur, outrage par le roi, outrage le noble qui outrage lepeuple; la nature humaine est humilie a tous les etages, et la societen'est plus qu'un commerce d'affronts. "

The law of Sequence by no means prescribes that we should invariablystate the proposition before its qualifications--the thought before itsillustrations; it merely prescribes that we should arrange our phrasesin the order of logical dependence and rhythmical cadence, the orderbest suited for clearness and for harmony. The nature of the thoughtwill determine the one, our sense of euphony the other. 

IV. THE LAW OF CLIMAX. 

We need not pause long over this; it is generally understood. Thecondition of our sensibilities is such that to produce their effectstimulants must be progressive in intensity and varied in kind. On thiscondition rest the laws of Climax and Variety. The phrase or imagewhich in one position will have a mild power of occupying the thoughts, or stimulating the emotions, loses this power if made to succeed one oflike kind but more agitating influence, and will gain an accession ofpower if it be artfully placed on the wave of a climax. We laugh at

"Then came Dalhousie, that great God of War, Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Mar, "

because of the relaxation which follows the sudden tension of the mind;but if we remove the idea of the colonelcy from this position ofanti-climax, the same couplet becomes energetic rather than ludicrous--

"Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Mar, Then came Dalhousie, that great God of War. "

I have selected this strongly marked case, instead of several feeblepassages which might be chosen from the first book at hand, whereincarelessness allows the sentences to close with the least important, phrases, and the style droops under frequent anti-climax. Let me nowcite a passage from Macaulay which vividly illustrates the effect ofClimax:--

"Never, perhaps, was the change which the progress of civilisation hasproduced in the art of war more strikingly illustrated than on thatday. Ajax beating down the Trojan leader with a rock which two ordinarymen could scarcely lift; Horatius defending the bridge against an army;Richard, the lion-hearted, spurring along the whole Saracen linewithout finding an enemy to withstand his assault; Robert Brucecrushing with one blow the helmet and head of Sir Harry Bohun in sightof the whole array of England and Scotland, --such are the heroes of adark age. [Here is an example of suspended meaning, where the suspenseintensifies the effect, because each particular is vividly apprehendedin itself, and all culminate in the conclusion; they do not complicatethe thought, or puzzle us, they only heighten expectation]. In such anage bodily vigour is the most indispensable qualification of a warrior. At Landen two poor sickly beings, who, in a rude state of society, would have been regarded as too puny to bear any part in combats, werethe souls of two great armies. In some heathen countries they wouldhave been exposed while infants. In Christendom they would, six hundredyears earlier, have been sent to some quiet cloister. But their lot hadfallen on a time when men had discovered that the strength of themuscles is far inferior in value to the strength of the mind. It isprobable that among the hundred and twenty thousand soldiers that weremarshalled round Neerwinden, under all the standards of Western Europe, the two feeblest in body were the hunchbacked dwarf, who urged forwardthe fiery onset of France, and the asthmatic skeleton who covered theslow retreat of England. "

The effect of Climax is very marked in the drama. Every speech, everyscene, every act, should have its progressive sequence. Nothing can bemore injudicious than a trivial phrase following an energetic phrase, afeeble thought succeeding a burst of passion, or even a passionatethought succeeding one more passionate. Yet this error is frequentlycommitted. 

In the drama all laws of Style are more imperious than in fiction orprose of any kind, because the art is more intense. But Climax isdemanded in every species of composition, for it springs from apsychological necessity. It is pressed upon, however, by the law ofVariety in a way to make it far from safe to be too rigidly followed. It easily degenerates into monotony. 

V. THE LAW OF VARIETY. 

Some one, after detailing an elaborate recipe for a salad, wound up theenumeration of ingredients and quantities with the advice to "open thewindow and throw it all away. " This advice might be applied to theforegoing enumeration of the laws of Style, unless these weresupplemented by the important law of Variety. A style which rigidlyinterpreted the precepts of economy, simplicity, sequence, and climax, which rejected all superfluous words and redundant ornaments, adoptedthe easiest and most logical arrangement, and closed every sentence andevery paragraph with a climax, might be a very perfect bit of mosaic, but would want the glow and movement of a living mind. Monotony wouldsettle on it like a paralysing frost. A series of sentences in whichevery phrase was a distinct thought, would no more serve as pabulum forthe mind, than portable soup freed from all the fibrous tissues of meatand vegetable would serve as food for the body. Animals perish fromhunger in the presence of pure albumen; and minds would lapse intoidiocy in the presence of unadulterated thought. But without invokingextreme cases, let us simply remember the psychological fact that it isas easy for sentences to be too compact as for food to be tooconcentrated; and that many a happy negligence, which to microscopiccriticism may appear defective, will be the means of giving clearnessand grace to a style. Of course the indolent indulgence in this laxityrobs style of all grace and power. But monotony in the structure ofsentences, monotony of cadence, monotony of climax, monotony anywhere, necessarily defeats the very aim and end of style; it calls attentionto the manner; it blunts the sensibilities; it renders excellencesodious. 

"Beauty deprived of its proper foils and adjuncts ceases to be enjoyedas beauty, just as light deprived of all shadow ceases to be enjoyed aslight. A white canvas cannot produce an effect of sunshine; the paintermust darken it in some places before he can make it look luminous inothers; nor can the uninterrupted succession of beauty produce the trueeffect of beauty; it must be foiled by inferiority before its own powercan be developed. Nature has for the most part mingled her inferior andnoble elements as she mingles sunshine with shade, giving due influenceto both. The truly high and beautiful art of Angelico is continuallyrefreshed and strengthened by his frank portraiture of the mostordinary features of his brother monks, of the recorded peculiaritiesof ungainly sanctity; but the modern German and Raphaelesque schoolslose all honour and nobleness in barber-like admiration of handsomefaces, and have in fact no real faith except in straight noses andcurled hair. Paul Veronese opposes the dwarf to the soldier, and thenegress to the queen; Shakspeare places Caliban beside Miranda, andAutolycus beside Perdita; but the vulgar idealist withdraws his beautyto the safety of the saloon, and his innocence to the seclusion of thecloister; he pretends that he does this in delicacy of choice andpurity of sentiment, while in truth he has neither courage to front themonster nor wit enough to furnish the knave. '' [Ruskin]. 

And how is Variety to be secured? The plan is simple, but like manyother simple plans, is not without difficulty. It is for the writer toobey the great cardinal principle of Sincerity, and be brave enough toexpress himself in his own way, following the mood of his own mind, rather than endeavouring to catch the accents of another, or to adapthimself to some standard of taste. No man really thinks and feelsmonotonously. If he is monotonous in his manner of setting forth histhoughts and feelings, that is either because he has not learned theart of writing, or because he is more or less consciously imitating themanner of others. The subtle play of thought will give movement andlife to his style if he do not clog it with critical superstitions. Ido not say that it will give him grace and power; I do not say thatrelying on perfect sincerity will make him a fine writer, becausesincerity will not give talent; but I say that sincerity will give himall the power that is possible to him, and will secure him theinestimable excellence of Variety. 

EDITOR.