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Nature In Art Essay Introduction

A subtle chain of countless rings
The next unto the farthest brings;
The eye reads omens where it goes,
And speaks all languages the rose;
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.
Introduction
Chapter I NATURE
Chapter II COMMODITY
Chapter III BEAUTY
Chapter IV LANGUAGE
Chapter V DISCIPLINE
Chapter VI IDEALISM
Chapter VII SPIRIT
Chapter VIII PROSPECTS


Introduction

Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship.

Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of the creation so far, as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy. Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries he would put. He acts it as life, before he apprehends it as truth. In like manner, nature is already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around us. Let us inquire, to what end is nature?

All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature. We have theories of races and of functions, but scarcely yet a remote approach to an idea of creation. We are now so far from the road to truth, that religious teachers dispute and hate each other, and speculative men are esteemed unsound and frivolous. But to a sound judgment, the most abstract truth is the most practical. Whenever a true theory appears, it will be its own evidence. Its test is, that it will explain all phenomena. Now many are thought not only unexplained but inexplicable; as language, sleep, madness, dreams, beasts, sex.

Philosophically considered, the universe is composed of Nature and the Soul. Strictly speaking, therefore, all that is separate from us, all which Philosophy distinguishes as the NOT ME, that is, both nature and art, all other men andmy own body, must be ranked under this name, NATURE. In enumerating the values of nature and casting up their sum, I shall use the word in both senses; -- in its common and in its philosophical import. In inquiries so general as our present one, the inaccuracy is not material; no confusion of thought will occur. Nature, in the common sense, refers to essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf. Art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, as in a house, a canal, a statue, a picture. But his operations taken together are so insignificant, a little chipping, baking, patching, and washing, that in an impression so grand as that of the world on the human mind, they do not vary the result.

Chapter I NATURE
To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.

The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.

When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impression made by manifold natural objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter, from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this morning, is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their warranty-deeds give no title.

To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, -- he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.

The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.

Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight, does not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance. For, nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity, the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then, there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population.

Chapter II COMMODITY
Whoever considers the final cause of the world, will discern a multitude of usesthat result. They all admit of being thrown into one of the following classes; Commodity; Beauty; Language; and Discipline.

Under the general name of Commodity, I rank all those advantages which our senses owe to nature. This, of course, is a benefit which is temporary and mediate, not ultimate, like its service to the soul. Yet although low, it is perfect in its kind, and is the only use of nature which all men apprehend. The misery of man appears like childish petulance, when we explore the steady and prodigal provision that has been made for his support and delight on this green ball which floats him through the heavens. What angels invented these splendid ornaments, these rich conveniences, this ocean of air above, this ocean of water beneath, this firmament of earth between? this zodiac of lights, this tent of dropping clouds, this striped coat of climates, this fourfold year? Beasts, fire, water, stones, and corn serve him. The field is at once his floor, his work-yard, his play-ground, his garden, and his bed.

"More servants wait on man
Than he 'll take notice of." ------
Nature, in its ministry to man, is not only the material, but is also the process and the result. All the parts incessantly work into each other's hands for the profit of man. The wind sows the seed; the sun evaporates the sea; the wind blows the vapor to the field; the ice, on the other side of the planet, condenses rain on this; the rain feeds the plant; the plant feeds the animal; and thus the endless circulations of the divine charity nourish man.

The useful arts are reproductions or new combinations by the wit of man, of the same natural benefactors. He no longer waits for favoring gales, but by means of steam, he realizes the fable of Aeolus's bag, and carries the two and thirty winds in the boiler of his boat. To diminish friction, he paves the road with iron bars, and, mounting a coach with a ship-load of men, animals, and merchandise behind him, he darts through the country, from town to town, like an eagle or a swallow through the air. By the aggregate of these aids, how is the face of the world changed, from the era of Noah to that of Napoleon! The private poor man hath cities, ships, canals, bridges, built for him. He goes to the post-office, and the human race run on his errands; to the book-shop, and the human race read and write of all that happens, for him; to the court-house, and nations repair his wrongs. He sets his house upon the road, and the human race go forth every morning, and shovel out the snow, and cut a path for him.

But there is no need of specifying particulars in this class of uses. The catalogue is endless, and the examples so obvious, that I shall leave them to the reader's reflection, with the general remark, that this mercenary benefit is one which has respect to a farther good. A man is fed, not that he may be fed, but that he may work.

Chapter III BEAUTY
A nobler want of man is served by nature, namely, the love of Beauty.

The ancient Greeks called the world {kosmos}, beauty. Such is the constitution of all things, or such the plastic power of the human eye, that the primary forms, as the sky, the mountain, the tree, the animal, give us a delight in and for themselves; a pleasure arising from outline, color, motion, and grouping. This seems partly owing to the eye itself. The eye is the best of artists. By the mutual action of its structure and of the laws of light, perspective is produced, which integrates every mass of objects, of what character soever, into a well colored and shaded globe, so that where the particular objects are mean and unaffecting, the landscape which they compose, is round and symmetrical. And as the eye is the best composer, so light is the first of painters. There is no object so foul that intense light will not make beautiful. And the stimulus it affords to the sense, and a sort of infinitude which it hath, like space and time, make all matter gay. Even the corpse has its own beauty. But besides this general grace diffused over nature, almost all the individual forms are agreeable to the eye, as is proved by our endless imitations of some of them, as the acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear, the egg, the wings and forms of most birds, the lion's claw, the serpent, the butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the forms of many trees, as the palm.

For better consideration, we may distribute the aspects of Beauty in a threefold manner.

1. First, the simple perception of natural forms is a delight. The influence of the forms and actions in nature, is so needful to man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines of commodity and beauty. To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and craft of the street, and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In their eternal calm, he finds himself. The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough.

But in other hours, Nature satisfies by its loveliness, and without any mixture of corporeal benefit. I see the spectacle of morning from the hill-top over against my house, from day-break to sun-rise, with emotions which an angel might share. The long slender bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light. From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations: the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind. How does Nature deify us with a few and cheap elements! Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; the sun-set and moon-rise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams.

Not less excellent, except for our less susceptibility in the afternoon, was the charm, last evening, of a January sunset. The western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes modulated with tints of unspeakable softness; and the air had so much life and sweetness, that it was a pain to come within doors. What was it that nature would say? Was there no meaning in the live repose of the valley behind the mill, and which Homer or Shakspeare could not reform for me in words? The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their back-ground, and the stars of the dead calices of flowers, and every withered stem and stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music.

The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is pleasant only half the year. I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The heavens change every moment, and reflect their glory or gloom on the plains beneath. The state of the crop in the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to week. The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides, which makes the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours, will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer. The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their time, follow each other, and the year has room for all. By water-courses, the variety is greater. In July, the blue pontederia or pickerel-weed blooms in large beds in the shallow parts of our pleasant river, and swarms with yellow butterflies in continual motion. Art cannot rival this pomp of purple and gold. Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.

But this beauty of Nature which is seen and felt as beauty, is the least part. The shows of day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock us with their unreality. Go out of the house to see the moon, and 't is mere tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines upon your necessary journey. The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it? Go forth to find it, and it is gone: 't is only a mirage as you look from the windows of diligence.

2. The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element is essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which can be loved without effeminacy, is that which is found in combination with the human will. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he will. He may divest himself of it; he may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do, but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself. "All those things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue;" said Sallust. "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, "are always on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done, -- perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades; are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of America; -- before it, the beach lined with savages, fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the living picture? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelope great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to him, "You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to be drawn in an open coach, through the principal streets of the city, on his way to the scaffold. "But," his biographer says, "the multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere. Homer, Pindar, Socrates, Phocion, associate themselves fitly in our memory with the geography and climate of Greece. The visible heavens and earth sympathize with Jesus. And in common life, whosoever has seen a person of powerful character and happy genius, will have remarked how easily he took all things along with him, -- the persons, the opinions, and the day, and nature became ancillary to a man.

3. There is still another aspect under which the beauty of the world may be viewed, namely, as it become s an object of the intellect. Beside the relation of things to virtue, they have a relation to thought. The intellect searches out the absolute order of things as they stand in the mind of God, and without the colors of affection. The intellectual and the active powers seem to succeed each other, and the exclusive activity of the one, generates the exclusive activity of the other. There is something unfriendly in each to the other, but they are like the alternate periods of feeding and working in animals; each prepares and will be followed by the other. Therefore does beauty, which, in relation to actions, as we have seen, comes unsought, and comes because it is unsought, remain for the apprehension and pursuit of the intellect; and then again, in its turn, of the active power. Nothing divine dies. All good is eternally reproductive. The beauty of nature reforms itself in the mind, and not for barren contemplation, but for new creation.

All men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world; some men even to delight. This love of beauty is Taste. Others have the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they seek to embody it in new forms. The creation of beauty is Art.

The production of a work of art throws a light upon the mystery of humanity. A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of nature, in miniature. For, although the works of nature are innumerable and all different, the result or the expression of them all is similar and single. Nature is a sea of forms radically alike and even unique. A leaf, a sun-beam, a landscape, the ocean, make an analogous impression on the mind. What is common to them all, -- that perfectness and harmony, is beauty. The standard of beauty is the entire circuit of natural forms, -- the totality of nature; which the Italians expressed by defining beauty "il piu nell' uno." Nothing is quite beautiful alone: nothing but is beautiful in the whole. A single object is only so far beautiful as it suggests this universal grace. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, the musician, the architect, seek each to concentrate this radiance of the world on one point, and each in his several work to satisfy the love of beauty which stimulates him to produce. Thus is Art, a nature passed through the alembic of man. Thus in art, does nature work through the will of a man filled with the beauty of her first works.

The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy the desire of beauty. This element I call an ultimate end. No reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its largest and profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe. God is the all-fair. Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces of the same All. But beauty in nature is not ultimate. It is the herald of inward and eternal beauty, and is not alone a solid and satisfactory good. It must stand as a part, and not as yet the last or highest expression of the final cause of Nature.

Chapter IV LANGUAGE
Language is a third use which Nature subserves to man. Nature is the vehble, and threefold degree.

1. Words are signs of natural facts.

2. Particular natural facts are symbols of particular spiritual facts.

3. Nature is the symbol of spirit.

1. Words are signs of natural facts. The use of natural history is to give us aid in supernatural history: the use of the outer creation, to give us language for the beings and changes of the inward creation. Every word which is used to express a moral or intellectual fact, if traced to its root, is found to be borrowed from some material appearance. Right means straight; wrong means twisted. Spirit primarily means wind; transgression, the crossing of a line; supercilious, the raising of the eyebrow. We say the heart to express emotion, the head to denote thought; and thought and emotion are words borrowed from sensible things, and now appropriated to spiritual nature. Most of the process by which this transformation is made, is hidden from us in the remote time when language was framed; but the same tendency may be daily observed in children. Children and savages use only nouns or names of things, which they convert into verbs, and apply to analogous mental acts.

2. But this origin of all words that convey a spiritual import, -- so conspicuous a fact in the history of language, -- is our least debt to nature. It is not words only that are emblematic; it is things which are emblematic. Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Every appearance in nature corresponds to some state of the mind, and that state of the mind can only be described by presenting that natural appearance as its picture. An enraged man is a lion, a cunning man is a fox, a firm man is a rock, a learned man is a torch. A lamb is innocence; a snake is subtle spite; flowers express to us the delicate affections. Light and darkness are our familiar expression for knowledge and ignorance; and heat for love. Visible distance behind and before us, is respectively our image of memory and hope.

Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour, and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. Man is conscious of a universal soul within or behind his individual life, wherein, as in a firmament, the natures of Justice, Truth, Love, Freedom, arise and shine. This universal soul, he calls Reason: it is not mine, or thine, or his, but we are its; we are its property and men. And the blue sky in which the private earth is buried, the sky with its eternal calm, and full of everlasting orbs, is the type of Reason. That which, intellectually considered, we call Reason, considered in relation to nature, we call Spirit. Spirit is the Creator. Spirit hath life in itself. And man in all ages and countries, embodies it in his language, as the FATHER.

It is easily seen that there is nothing lucky or capricious in these analogies, but that they are constant, and pervade nature. These are not the dreams of a few poets, here and there, but man is an analogist, and studies relations in all objects. He is placed in the centre of beings, and a ray of relation passes from every other being to him. And neither can man be understood without these objects, nor these objects without man. All the facts in natural history taken by themselves, have no value, but are barren, like a single sex. But marry it to human history, and it is full of life. Whole Floras, all Linnaeus' and Buffon's volumes, are dry catalogues of facts; but the most trivial of these facts, the habit of a plant, the organs, or work, or noise of an insect, applied to the illustration of a fact in intellectual philosophy, or, in any way associated to human nature, affects us in the most lively and agreeable manner. The seed of a plant, -- to what affecting analogies in the nature of man, is that little fruit made use of, in all discourse, up to the voice of Paul, who calls the human corpse a seed, -- "It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." The motion of the earth round its axis, and round the sun, makes the day, and the year. These are certain amounts of brute light and heat. But is there no intent of an analogy between man's life and the seasons? And do the seasons gain no grandeur or pathos from that analogy? The instincts of the ant are very unimportant, considered as the ant's; but the moment a ray of relation is seen to extend from it to man, and the little drudge is seen to be a monitor, a little body with a mighty heart, then all its habits, even that said to be recently observed, that it never sleeps, become sublime.

Because of this radical correspondence between visible things and human thoughts, savages, who have only what is necessary, converse in figures. As we go back in history, language becomes more picturesque, until its infancy, when it is all poetry; or all spiritual facts are represented by natural symbols. The same symbols are found to make the original elements of all languages. It has moreover been observed, that the idioms of all languages approach each other in passages of the greatest eloquence and power. And as this is the first language, so is it the last. This immediate dependence of language upon nature, this conversion of an outward phenomenon into a type of somewhat in human life, never loses its power to affect us. It is this which gives that piquancy to the conversation of a strong-natured farmer or back-woodsman, which all men relish.

A man's power to connect his thought with its proper symbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth, and his desire to communicate it without loss. The corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. When simplicity of character and the sovereignty of ideas is broken up by the prevalence of secondary desires, the desire of riches, of pleasure, of power, and of praise, -- and duplicity and falsehood take place of simplicity and truth, the power over nature as an interpreter of the will, is in a degree lost; new imagery ceases to be created, and old words are perverted to stand for things which are not; a paper currency is employed, when there is no bullion in the vaults. In due time, the fraud is manifest, and words lose all power to stimulate the understanding or the affections. Hundreds of writers may be found in every long-civilized nation, who for a short time believe, and make others believe, that they see and utter truths, who do not of themselves clothe one thought in its natural garment, but who feed unconsciously on the language created by the primary writers of the country, those, namely, who hold primarily on nature.

But wise men pierce this rotten diction and fasten words again to visible things; so that picturesque language is at once a commanding certificate that he who employs it, is a man in alliance with truth and God. The moment our discourse rises above the ground line of familiar facts, and is inflamed with passion or exalted by thought, it clothes itself in images. A man conversing in earnest, if he watch his intellectual processes, will find that a material image, more or less luminous, arises in his mind, cotemporaneous with every thought, which furnishes the vestment of the thought. Hence, good writing and brilliant discourse are perpetual allegories. This imagery is spontaneous. It is the blending of experience with the present action of the mind. It is proper creation. It is the working of the Original Cause through the instruments he has already made.

These facts may suggest the advantage which the country-life possesses for a powerful mind, over the artificial and curtailed life of cities. We know more from nature than we can at will communicate. Its light flows into the mind evermore, and we forget its presence. The poet, the orator, bred in the woods, whose senses have been nourished by their fair and appeasing changes, year after year, without design and without heed, -- shall not lose their lesson altogether, in the roar of cities or the broil of politics. Long hereafter, amidst agitation and terror in national councils, -- in the hour of revolution, -- these solemn images shall reappear in their morning lustre, as fit symbols and words of the thoughts which the passing events shall awaken. At the call of a noble sentiment, again the woods wave, the pines murmur, the river rolls and shines, and the cattle low upon the mountains, as he saw and heard them in his infancy. And with these forms, the spells of persuasion, the keys of power are put into his hands.

3. We are thus assisted by natural objects in the expression of particular meanings. But how great a language to convey such pepper-corn informations! Did it need such noble races of creatures, this profusion of forms, this host of orbs in heaven, to furnish man with the dictionary and grammar of his municipal speech? Whilst we use this grand cipher to expedite the affairs of our pot and kettle, we feel that we have not yet put it to its use, neither are able. We are like travellers using the cinders of a volcano to roast their eggs. Whilst we see that it always stands ready to clothe what we would say, we cannot avoid the question, whether the characters are not significant of themselves. Have mountains, and waves, and skies, no significance but what we consciously give them, when we employ them as emblems of our thoughts? The world is emblematic. Parts of speech are metaphors, because the whole of nature is a metaphor of the human mind. The laws of moral nature answer to those of matter as face to face in a glass. "The visible world and the relation of its parts, is the dial plate of the invisible." The axioms of physics translate the laws of ethics. Thus, "the whole is greater than its part;" "reaction is equal to action;" "the smallest weight may be made to lift the greatest, the difference of weight being compensated by time;" and many the like propositions, which have an ethical as well as physical sense. These propositions have a much more extensive and universal sense when applied to human life, than when confined to technical use.

In like manner, the memorable words of history, and the proverbs of nations, consist usually of a natural fact, selected as a picture or parable of a moral truth. Thus; A rolling stone gathers no moss; A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; A cripple in the right way, will beat a racer in the wrong; Make hay while the sun shines; 'T is hard to carry a full cup even; Vinegar is the son of wine; The last ounce broke the camel's back; Long-lived trees make roots first; -- and the like. In their primary sense these are trivial facts, but we repeat them for the value of their analogical import. What is true of proverbs, is true of all fables, parables, and allegories.

This relation between the mind and matter is not fancied by some poet, but stands in the will of God, and so is free to be known by all men. It appears to men, or it does not appear. When in fortunate hours we ponder this miracle, the wise man doubts, if, at all other times, he is not blind and deaf;

------ "Can these things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder?"
for the universe becomes transparent, and the light of higher laws than its own, shines through it. It is the standing problem which has exercised the wonder and the study of every fine genius since the world began; from the era of the Egyptians and the Brahmins, to that of Pythagoras, of Plato, of Bacon, of Leibnitz, of Swedenborg. There sits the Sphinx at the road-side, and from age to age, as each prophet comes by, he tries his fortune at reading her riddle. There seems to be a necessity in spirit to manifest itself in material forms; and day and night, river and storm, beast and bird, acid and alkali, preexist in necessary Ideas in the mind of God, and are what they are by virtue of preceding affections, in the world of spirit. A Fact is the end or last issue of spirit. The visible creation is the terminus or the circumference of the invisible world. "Material objects," said a French philosopher, "are necessarily kinds of scoriae of the substantial thoughts of the Creator, which must always preserve an exact relation to their first origin; in other words, visible nature must have a spiritual and moral side."

This doctrine is abstruse, and though the images of "garment," "scoriae," "mirror," &c., may stimulate the fancy, we must summon the aid of subtler and more vital expositors to make it plain. "Every scripture is to be interpreted by the same spirit which gave it forth," -- is the fundamental law of criticism. A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause.

A new interest surprises us, whilst, under the view now suggested, we contemplate the fearful extent and multitude of objects; since "every object rightly seen, unlocks a new faculty of the soul." That which was unconscious truth, becomes, when interpreted and defined in an object, a part of the domain of knowledge, -- a new weapon in the magazine of power.

Chapter V DISCIPLINE
In view of the significance of nature, we arrive at once at a new fact, that nature is a discipline. This use of the world includes the preceding uses, as parts of itself.

Space, time, society, labor, climate, food, locomotion, the animals, the mechanical forces, give us sincerest lessons, day by day, whose meaning is unlimited. They educate both the Understanding and the Reason. Every property of matter is a school for the understanding, -- its solidity or resistance, its inertia, its extension, its figure, its divisibility. The understanding adds, divides, combines, measures, and finds nutriment and room for its activity in this worthy scene. Meantime, Reason transfers all these lessons into its own world of thought, by perceiving the analogy that marries Matter and Mind.

1. Nature is a discipline of the understanding in intellectual truths. Our dealing with sensible objects is a constant exercise in the necessary lessons of difference, of likeness, of order, of being and seeming, of progressive arrangement; of ascent from particular to general; of combination to one end of manifold forces. Proportioned to the importance of the organ to be formed, is the extreme care with which its tuition is provided, -- a care pretermitted in no single case. What tedious training, day after day, year after year, never ending, to form the common sense; what continual reproduction of annoyances, inconveniences, dilemmas; what rejoicing over us of little men; what disputing of prices, what reckonings of interest, -- and all to form the Hand of the mind; -- to instruct us that "good thoughts are no better than good dreams, unless they be executed!"

The same good office is performed by Property and its filial systems of debt and credit. Debt, grinding debt, whose iron face the widow, the orphan, and the sons of genius fear and hate; -- debt, which consumes so much time, which so cripples and disheartens a great spirit with cares that seem so base, is a preceptor whose lessons cannot be forgone, and is needed most by those who suffer from it most. Moreover, property, which has been well compared to snow, -- "if it fall level to-day, it will be blown into drifts to-morrow," -- is the surface action of internal machinery, like the index on the face of a clock. Whilst now it is the gymnastics of the understanding, it is hiving in the foresight of the spirit, experience in profounder laws.

The whole character and fortune of the individual are affected by the least inequalities in the culture of the understanding; for example, in the perception of differences. Therefore is Space, and therefore Time, that man may know that things are not huddled and lumped, but sundered and individual. A bell and a plough have each their use, and neither can do the office of the other. Water is good to drink, coal to burn, wool to wear; but wool cannot be drunk, nor water spun, nor coal eaten. The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature. The foolish have no range in their scale, but suppose every man is as every other man. What is not good they call the worst, and what is not hateful, they call the best.

In like manner, what good heed, nature forms in us! She pardons no mistakes. Her yea is yea, and her nay, nay.

The first steps in Agriculture, Astronomy, Zoology, (those first steps which the farmer, the hunter, and the sailor take,) teach that nature's dice are always loaded; that in her heaps and rubbish are concealed sure and useful results.

How calmly and genially the mind apprehends one after another the laws of physics! What noble emotions dilate the mortal as he enters into the counsels of the creation, and feels by knowledge the privilege to BE! His insight refines him. The beauty of nature shines in his own breast. Man is greater that he can see this, and the universe less, because Time and Space relations vanish as laws are known.

Here again we are impressed and even daunted by the immense Universe to be explored. "What we know, is a point to what we do not know." Open any recent journal of science, and weigh the problems suggested concerning Light, Heat, Electricity, Magnetism, Physiology, Geology, and judge whether the interest of natural science is likely to be soon exhausted.

Passing by many particulars of the discipline of nature, we must not omit to specify two.

The exercise of the Will or the lesson of power is taught in every event. From the child's successive possession of his several senses up to the hour when he saith, "Thy will be done!" he is learning the secret, that he can reduce under his will, not only particular events, but great classes, nay the whole series of events, and so conform all facts to his character. Nature is thoroughly mediate. It is made to serve. It receives the dominion of man as meekly as the ass on which the Saviour rode. It offers all its kingdoms to man as the raw material which he may mould into what is useful. Man is never weary of working it up. He forges the subtile and delicate air into wise and melodious words, and gives them wing as angels of persuasion and command. One after another, his victorious thought comes up with and reduces all things, until the world becomes, at last, only a realized will, -- the double of the man.

2. Sensible objects conform to the premonitions of Reason and reflect the conscience. All things are moral; and in their boundless changes have an unceasing reference to spiritual nature. Therefore is nature glorious with form, color, and motion, that every globe in the remotest heaven; every chemical change from the rudest crystal up to the laws of life; every change of vegetation from the first principle of growth in the eye of a leaf, to the tropical forest and antediluvian coal-mine; every animal function from the sponge up to Hercules, shall hint or thunder to man the laws of right and wrong, and echo the Ten Commandments. Therefore is nature ever the ally of Religion: lends all her pomp and riches to the religious sentiment. Prophet and priest, David, Isaiah, Jesus, have drawn deeply from this source. This ethical character so penetrates the bone and marrow of nature, as to seem the end for which it was made. Whatever private purpose is answered by any member or part, this is its public and universal function, and is never omitted. Nothing in nature is exhausted in its first use. When a thing has served an end to the uttermost, it is wholly new for an ulterior service. In God, every end is converted into a new means. Thus the use of commodity, regarded by itself, is mean and squalid. But it is to the mind an education in the doctrine of Use, namely, that a thing is good only so far as it serves; that a conspiring of parts and efforts to the production of an end, is essential to any being. The first and gross manifestation of this truth, is our inevitable and hated training in values and wants, in corn and meat.

It has already been illustrated, that every natural process is a version of a moral sentence. The moral law lies at the centre of nature and radiates to the circumference. It is the pith and marrow of every substance, every relation, and every process. All things with which we deal, preach to us. What is a farm but a mute gospel? The chaff and the wheat, weeds and plants, blight, rain, insects, sun, -- it is a sacred emblem from the first furrow of spring to the last stack which the snow of winter overtakes in the fields. But the sailor, the shepherd, the miner, the merchant, in their several resorts, have each an experience precisely parallel, and leading to the same conclusion: because all organizations are radically alike. Nor can it be doubted that this moral sentiment which thus scents the air, grows in the grain, and impregnates the waters of the world, is caught by man and sinks into his soul. The moral influence of nature upon every individual is that amount of truth which it illustrates to him. Who can estimate this? Who can guess how much firmness the sea-beaten rock has taught the fisherman? how much tranquillity has been reflected to man from the azure sky, over whose unspotted deeps the winds forevermore drive flocks of stormy clouds, and leave no wrinkle or stain? how much industry and providence and affection we have caught from the pantomime of brutes? What a searching preacher of self-command is the varying phenomenon of Health!

Herein is especially apprehended the unity of Nature, -- the unity in variety, -- which meets us everywhere. All the endless variety of things make an identical impression. Xenophanes complained in his old age, that, look where he would, all things hastened back to Unity. He was weary of seeing the same entity in the tedious variety of forms. The fable of Proteus has a cordial truth. A leaf, a drop, a crystal, a moment of time is related to the whole, and partakes of the perfection of the whole. Each particle is a microcosm, and faithfully renders the likeness of the world.

Not only resemblances exist in things whose analogy is obvious, as when we detect the type of the human hand in the flipper of the fossil saurus, but also in objects wherein there is great superficial unlikeness. Thus architecture is called "frozen music," by De Stael and Goethe. Vitruvius thought an architect should be a musician. "A Gothic church," said Coleridge, "is a petrified religion." Michael Angelo maintained, that, to an architect, a knowledge of anatomy is essential. In Haydn's oratorios, the notes present to the imagination not only motions, as, of the snake, the stag, and the elephant, but colors also; as the green grass. The law of harmonic sounds reappears in the harmonic colors. The granite is differenced in its laws only by the more or less of heat, from the river that wears it away. The river, as it flows, resembles the air that flows over it; the air resembles the light which traverses it with more subtile currents; the light resembles the heat which rides with it through Space. Each creature is only a modification of the other; the likeness in them is more than the difference, and their radical law is one and the same. A rule of one art, or a law of one organization, holds true throughout nature. So intimate is this Unity, that, it is easily seen, it lies under the undermost garment of nature, and betrays its source in Universal Spirit. For, it pervades Thought also. Every universal truth which we express in words, implies or supposes every other truth. Omne verum vero consonat. It is like a great circle on a sphere, comprising all possible circles; which, however, may be drawn, and comprise it, in like manner. Every such truth is the absolute Ens seen from one side. But it has innumerable sides.

The central Unity is still more conspicuous in actions. Words are finite organs of the infinite mind. They cannot cover the dimensions of what is in truth. They break, chop, and impoverish it. An action is the perfection and publication of thought. A right action seems to fill the eye, and to be related to all nature. "The wise man, in doing one thing, does all; or, in the one thing he does rightly, he sees the likeness of all which is done rightly."

Words and actions are not the attributes of brute nature. They introduce us to the human form, of which all other organizations appear to be degradations. When this appears among so many that surround it, the spirit prefers it to all others. It says, `From such as this, have I drawn joy and knowledge; in such as this, have I found and beheld myself; I will speak to it; it can speak again; it can yield me thought already formed and alive.' In fact, the eye, -- the mind, -- is always accompanied by these forms, male and female; and these are incomparably the richest informations of the power and order that lie at the heart of things. Unfortunately, every one of them bears the marks as of some injury; is marred and superficially defective. Nevertheless, far different from the deaf and dumb nature around them, these all rest like fountain-pipes on the unfathomed sea of thought and virtue whereto they alone, of all organizations, are the entrances.

It were a pleasant inquiry to follow into detail their ministry to our education, but where would it stop? We are associated in adolescent and adult life with some friends, who, like skies and waters, are coextensive with our idea; who, answering each to a certain affection of the soul, satisfy our desire on that side; whom we lack power to put at such focal distance from us, that we can mend or even analyze them. We cannot choose but love them. When much intercourse with a friend has supplied us with a standard of excellence, and has increased our respect for the resources of God who thus sends a real person to outgo our ideal; when he has, moreover, become an object of thought, and, whilst his character retains all its unconscious effect, is converted in the mind into solid and sweet wisdom, -- it is a sign to us that his office is closing, and he is commonly withdrawn from our sight in a short time.

Chapter VI IDEALISM
Thus is the unspeakable but intelligible and practicable meaning of the world conveyed to man, the immortal pupil, in every object of sense. To this one end of Discipline, all parts of nature conspire.

A noble doubt perpetually suggests itself, whether this end be not the Final Cause of the Universe; and whether nature outwardly exists. It is a sufficient account of that Appearance we call the World, that God will teach a human mind, and so makes it the receiver of a certain number of congruent sensations, which we call sun and moon, man and woman, house and trade. In my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul? The relations of parts and the end of the whole remaining the same, what is the difference, whether land and sea interact, and worlds revolve and intermingle without number or end, -- deep yawning under deep, and galaxy balancing galaxy, throughout absolute space, -- or, whether, without relations of time and space, the same appearances are inscribed in the constant faith of man? Whether nature enjoy a substantial existence without, or is only in the apocalypse of the mind, it is alike useful and alike venerable to me. Be it what it may, it is ideal to me, so long as I cannot try the accuracy of my senses.

The frivolous make themselves merry with the Ideal theory, as if its consequences were burlesque; as if it affected the stability of nature. It surely does not. God never jests with us, and will not compromise the end of nature, by permitting any inconsequence in its procession. Any distrust of the permanence of laws, would paralyze the faculties of man. Their permanence is sacredly respected, and his faith therein is perfect. The wheels and springs of man are all set to the hypothesis of the permanence of nature. We are not built like a ship to be tossed, but like a house to stand. It is a natural consequence of this structure, that, so long as the active powers predominate over the reflective, we resist with indignation any hint that nature is more short-lived or mutable than spirit. The broker, the wheelwright, the carpenter, the toll-man, are much displeased at the intimation.

But whilst we acquiesce entirely in the permanence of natural laws, the question of the absolute existence of nature still remains open. It is the uniform effect of culture on the human mind, not to shake our faith in the stability of particular phenomena, as of heat, water, azote; but to lead us to regard nature as a phenomenon, not a substance; to attribute necessary existence to spirit; to esteem nature as an accident and an effect.

To the senses and the unrenewed understanding, belongs a sort of instinctive belief in the absolute existence of nature. In their view, man and nature are indissolubly joined. Things are ultimates, and they never look beyond their sphere. The presence of Reason mars this faith. The first effort of thought tends to relax this despotism of the senses, which binds us to nature as if we were a part of it, and shows us nature aloof, and, as it were, afloat. Until this higher agency intervened, the animal eye sees, with wonderful accuracy, sharp outlines and colored surfaces. When the eye of Reason opens, to outline and surface are at once added, grace and expression. These proceed from imagination and affection, and abate somewhat of the angular distinctness of objects. If the Reason be stimulated to more earnest vision, outlines and surfaces become transparent, and are no longer seen; causes and spirits are seen through them. The best moments of life are these delicious awakenings of the higher powers, and the reverential withdrawing of nature before its God.

Let us proceed to indicate the effects of culture. 1. Our first institution in the Ideal philosophy is a hint from nature herself.

Nature is made to conspire with spirit to emancipate us. Certain mechanical changes, a small alteration in our local position apprizes us of a dualism. We are strangely affected by seeing the shore from a moving ship, from a balloon, or through the tints of an unusual sky. The least change in our point of view, gives the whole world a pictorial air. A man who seldom rides, needs only to get into a coach and traverse his own town, to turn the street into a puppet-show. The men, the women, -- talking, running, bartering, fighting, -- the earnest mechanic, the lounger, the beggar, the boys, the dogs, are unrealized at once, or, at least, wholly detached from all relation to the observer, and seen as apparent, not substantial beings. What new thoughts are suggested by seeing a face of country quite familiar, in the rapid movement of the rail-road car! Nay, the most wonted objects, (make a very slight change in the point of vision,) please us most. In a camera obscura, the butcher's cart, and the figure of one of our own family amuse us. So a portrait of a well-known face gratifies us. Turn the eyes upside down, by looking at the landscape through your legs, and how agreeable is the picture, though you have seen it any time these twenty years!

In these cases, by mechanical means, is suggested the difference between the observer and the spectacle, -- between man and nature. Hence arises a pleasure mixed with awe; I may say, a low degree of the sublime is felt from the fact, probably, that man is hereby apprized, that, whilst the world is a spectacle, something in himself is stable.

2. In a higher manner, the poet communicates the same pleasure. By a few strokes he delineates, as on air, the sun, the mountain, the camp, the city, the hero, the maiden, not different from what we know them, but only lifted from the ground and afloat before the eye. He unfixes the land and the sea, makes them revolve around the axis of his primary thought, and disposes them anew. Possessed himself by a heroic passion, he uses matter as symbols of it. The sensual man conforms thoughts to things; the poet conforms things to his thoughts. The one esteems nature as rooted and fast; the other, as fluid, and impresses his being thereon. To him, the refractory world is ductile and flexible; he invests dust and stones with humanity, and makes them the words of the Reason. The Imagination may be defined to be, the use which the Reason makes of the material world. Shakspeare possesses the power of subordinating nature for the purposes of expression, beyond all poets. His imperial muse tosses the creation like a bauble from hand to hand, and uses it to embody any caprice of thought that is upper-most in his mind. The remotest spaces of nature are visited, and the farthest sundered things are brought together, by a subtle spiritual connection. We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet. Thus, in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament;

The ornament of beauty is Suspect,
A crow which flies in heaven's sweetest air.
His passion is not the fruit of chance; it swells, as he speaks, to a city, or a state.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the brow of thralling discontent;
It fears not policy, that heretic,
That works on leases of short numbered hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic
In the strength of his constancy, the Pyramids seem to him recent and transitory. The freshness of youth and love dazzles him with its resemblance to morning.
Take those lips away
Which so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, -- the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn.
The wild beauty of this hyperbole, I may say, in passing, it would not be easy to match in literature.

This transfiguration which all material objects undergo through the passion of the poet, -- this power which he exerts to dwarf the great, to magnify the small, -- might be illustrated by a thousand examples from his Plays. I have before me the Tempest, and will cite only these few lines.

ARIEL. The strong based promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up
The pine and cedar.
Prospero calls for music to soothe the frantic Alonzo, and his companions;
A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains
Now useless, boiled within thy skull.
Again;
The charm dissolves apace,
And, as the morning steals upon the night,
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason.
Their understanding
Begins to swell: and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores
That now lie foul and muddy.

The perception of real affinities between events, (that is to say, of ideal affinities, for those only are real,) enables the poet thus to make free with the most imposing forms and phenomena of the world, and to assert the predominance of the soul.

3. Whilst thus the poet animates nature with his own thoughts, he differs from the philosopher only herein, that the one proposes Beauty as his main end; the other Truth. But the philosopher, not less than the poet, postpones the apparent order and relations of things to the empire of thought. "The problem of philosophy," according to Plato, "is, for all that exists conditionally, to find a ground unconditioned and absolute." It proceeds on the faith that a law determines all phenomena, which being known, the phenomena can be predicted. That law, when in the mind, is an idea. Its beauty is infinite. The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both. Is not the charm of one of Plato's or Aristotle's definitions, strictly like that of the Antigone of Sophocles? It is, in both cases, that a spiritual life has been imparted to nature; that the solid seeming block of matter has been pervaded and dissolved by a thought; that this feeble human being has penetrated the vast masses of nature with an informing soul, and recognised itself in their harmony, that is, seized their law. In physics, when this is attained, the memory disburthens itself of its cumbrous catalogues of particulars, and carries centuries of observation in a single formula.

Thus even in physics, the material is degraded before the spiritual. The astronomer, the geometer, rely on their irrefragable analysis, and disdain the results of observation. The sublime remark of Euler on his law of arches, "This will be found contrary to all experience, yet is true;" had already transferred nature into the mind, and left matter like an outcast corpse.

4. Intellectual science has been observed to beget invariably a doubt of the existence of matter. Turgot said, "He that has never doubted the existence of matter, may be assured he has no aptitude for metaphysical inquiries." It fastens the attention upon immortal necessary uncreated natures, that is, upon Ideas; and in their presence, we feel that the outward circumstance is a dream and a shade. Whilst we wait in this Olympus of gods, we think of nature as an appendix to the soul. We ascend into their region, and know that these are the thoughts of the Supreme Being. "These are they who were set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was. When he prepared the heavens, they were there; when he established the clouds above, when he strengthened the fountains of the deep. Then they were by him, as one brought up with him. Of them took he counsel."

Their influence is proportionate. As objects of science, they are accessible to few men. Yet all men are capable of being raised by piety or by passion, into their region. And no man touches these divine natures, without becoming, in some degree, himself divine. Like a new soul, they renew the body. We become physically nimble and lightsome; we tread on air; life is no longer irksome, and we think it will never be so. No man fears age or misfortune or death, in their serene company, for he is transported out of the district of change. Whilst we behold unveiled the nature of Justice and Truth, we learn the difference between the absolute and the conditional or relative. We apprehend the absolute. As it were, for the first time, we exist. We become immortal, for we learn that time and space are relations of matter; that, with a perception of truth, or a virtuous will, they have no affinity.

5. Finally, religion and ethics, which may be fitly called, -- the practice of ideas, or the introduction of ideas into life, -- have an analogous effect with all lower culture, in degrading nature and suggesting its dependence on spirit. Ethics and religion differ herein; that the one is the system of human duties commencing from man; the other, from God. Religion includes the personality of God; Ethics does not. They are one to our present design. They both put nature under foot. The first and last lesson of religion is, "The things that are seen, are temporal; the things that are unseen, are eternal." It puts an affront upon nature. It does that for the unschooled, which philosophy does for Berkeley and Viasa. The uniform language that may be heard in the churches of the most ignorant sects, is,------"Contemn the unsubstantial shows of the world; they are vanities, dreams, shadows, unrealities; seek the realities of religion." The devotee flouts nature. Some theosophists have arrived at a certain hostility and indignation towards matter, as the Manichean and Plotinus. They distrusted in themselves any looking back to these flesh-pots of Egypt. Plotinus was ashamed of his body. In short, they might all say of matter, what Michael Angelo said of external beauty, "it is the frail and weary weed, in which God dresses the soul, which he has called into time."

It appears that motion, poetry, physical and intellectual science, and religion, all tend to affect our convictions of the reality of the external world. But I own there is something ungrateful in expanding too curiously the particulars of the general proposition, that all culture tends to imbue us with idealism. I have no hostility to nature, but a child's love to it. I expand and live in the warm day like corn and melons. Let us speak her fair. I do not wish to fling stones at my beautiful mother, nor soil my gentle nest. I only wish to indicate the true position of nature in regard to man, wherein to establish man, all right education tends; as the ground which to attain is the object of human life, that is, of man's connection with nature. Culture inverts the vulgar views of nature, and brings the mind to call that apparent, which it uses to call real, and that real, which it uses to call visionary. Children, it is true, believe in the external world. The belief that it appears only, is an afterthought, but with culture, this faith will as surely arise on the mind as did the first.

The advantage of the ideal theory over the popular faith, is this, that it presents the world in precisely that view which is most desirable to the mind. It is, in fact, the view which Reason, both speculative and practical, that is, philosophy and virtue, take. For, seen in the light of thought, the world always is phenomenal; and virtue subordinates it to the mind. Idealism sees the world in God. It beholds the whole circle of persons and things, of actions and events, of country and religion, not as painfully accumulated, atom after atom, act after act, in an aged creeping Past, but as one vast picture, which God paints on the instant eternity, for the contemplation of the soul. Therefore the soul holds itself off from a too trivial and microscopic study of the universal tablet. It respects the end too much, to immerse itself in the means. It sees something more important in Christianity, than the scandals of ecclesiastical history, or the niceties of criticism; and, very incurious concerning persons or miracles, and not at all disturbed by chasms of historical evidence, it accepts from God the phenomenon, as it finds it, as the pure and awful form of religion in the world. It is not hot and passionate at the appearance of what it calls its own good or bad fortune, at the union or opposition of other persons. No man is its enemy. It accepts whatsoever befalls, as part of its lesson. It is a watcher more than a doer, and it is a doer, only that it may the better watch.

Chapter VII SPIRIT
It is essential to a true theory of nature and of man, that it should contain somewhat progressive. Uses that are exhausted or that may be, and facts that end in the statement, cannot be all that is true of this brave lodging wherein man is harbored, and wherein all his faculties find appropriate and endless exercise. And all the uses of nature admit of being summed in one, which yields the activity of man an infinite scope. Through all its kingdoms, to the suburbs and outskirts of things, it is faithful to the cause whence it had its origin. It always speaks of Spirit. It suggests the absolute. It is a perpetual effect. It is a great shadow pointing always to the sun behind us.

The aspect of nature is devout. Like the figure of Jesus, she stands with bended head, and hands folded upon the breast. The happiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship.

Of that ineffable essence which we call Spirit, he that thinks most, will say least. We can foresee God in the coarse, and, as it were, distant phenomena of matter; but when we try to define and describe himself, both language and thought desert us, and we are as helpless as fools and savages. That essence refuses to be recorded in propositions, but when man has worshipped him intellectually, the noblest ministry of nature is to stand as the apparition of God. It is the organ through which the universal spirit speaks to the individual, and strives to lead back the individual to it.

When we consider Spirit, we see that the views already presented do not include the whole circumference of man. We must add some related thoughts.

Three problems are put by nature to the mind; What is matter? Whence is it? and Whereto? The first of these questions only, the ideal theory answers. Idealism saith: matter is a phenomenon, not a substance. Idealism acquaints us with the total disparity between the evidence of our own being, and the evidence of the world's being. The one is perfect; the other, incapable of any assurance; the mind is a part of the nature of things; the world is a divine dream, from which we may presently awake to the glories and certainties of day. Idealism is a hypothesis to account for nature by other principles than those of carpentry and chemistry. Yet, if it only deny the existence of matter, it does not satisfy the demands of the spirit. It leaves God out of me. It leaves me in the splendid labyrinth of my perceptions, to wander without end. Then the heart resists it, because it balks the affections in denying substantive being to men and women. Nature is so pervaded with human life, that there is something of humanity in all, and in every particular. But this theory makes nature foreign to me, and does not account for that consanguinity which we acknowledge to it.

Let it stand, then, in the present state of our knowledge, merely as a useful introductory hypothesis, serving to apprize us of the eternal distinction between the soul and the world.

But when, following the invisible steps of thought, we come to inquire, Whence is matter? and Whereto? many truths arise to us out of the recesses of consciousness. We learn that the highest is present to the soul of man, that the dread universal essence, which is not wisdom, or love, or beauty, or power, but all in one, and each entirely, is that for which all things exist, and that by which they are; that spirit creates; that behind nature, throughout nature, spirit is present; one and not compound, it does not act upon us from without, that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or through ourselves: therefore, that spirit, that is, the Supreme Being, does not build up nature around us, but puts it forth through us, as the life of the tree puts forth new branches and leaves through the pores of the old. As a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom of God; he is nourished by unfailing fountains, and draws, at his need, inexhaustible power. Who can set bounds to the possibilities of man? Once inhale the upper air, being admitted to behold the absolute natures of justice and truth, and we learn that man has access to the entire mind of the Creator, is himself the creator in the finite. This view, which admonishes me where the sources of wisdom and power lie, and points to virtue as to

"The golden key
Which opes the palace of eternity,"
carries upon its face the highest certificate of truth, because it animates me to create my own world through the purification of my soul.

The world proceeds from the same spirit as the body of man. It is a remoter and inferior incarnation of God, a projection of God in the unconscious. But it differs from the body in one important respect. It is not, like that, now subjected to the human will. Its serene order is inviolable by us. It is, therefore, to us, the present expositor of the divine mind. It is a fixed point whereby we may measure our departure. As we degenerate, the contrast between us and our house is more evident. We are as much strangers in nature, as we are aliens from God. We do not understand the notes of birds. The fox and the deer run away from us; the bear and tiger rend us. We do not know the uses of more than a few plants, as corn and the apple, the potato and the vine. Is not the landscape, every glimpse of which hath a grandeur, a face of him? Yet this may show us what discord is between man and nature, for you cannot freely admire a noble landscape, if laborers are digging in the field hard by. The poet finds something ridiculous in his delight, until he is out of the sight of men.

Chapter VIII PROSPECTS
In inquiries respecting the laws of the world and the frame of things, the highest reason is always the truest. That which seems faintly possible -- it is so refined, is often faint and dim because it is deepest seated in the mind among the eternal verities. Empirical science is apt to cloud the sight, and, by the very knowledge of functions and processes, to bereave the student of the manly contemplation of the whole. The savant becomes unpoetic. But the best read naturalist who lends an entire and devout attention to truth, will see that there remains much to learn of his relation to the world, and that it is not to be learned by any addition or subtraction or other comparison of known quantities, but is arrived at by untaught sallies of the spirit, by a continual self-recovery, and by entire humility. He will perceive that there are far more excellent qualities in the student than preciseness and infallibility; that a guess is often more fruitful than an indisputable affirmation, and that a dream may let us deeper into the secret of nature than a hundred concerted experiments.

For, the problems to be solved are precisely those which the physiologist and the naturalist omit to state. It is not so pertinent to man to know all the individuals of the animal kingdom, as it is to know whence and whereto is this tyrannizing unity in his constitution, which evermore separates and classifies things, endeavoring to reduce the most diverse to one form. When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of multitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity. I cannot greatly honor minuteness in details, so long as there is no hint to explain the relation between things and thoughts; no ray upon the metaphysics of conchology, of botany, of the arts, to show the relation of the forms of flowers, shells, animals, architecture, to the mind, and build science upon ideas. In a cabinet of natural history, we become sensible of a certain occult recognition and sympathy in regard to the most unwieldly and eccentric forms of beast, fish, and insect. The American who has been confined, in his own country, to the sight of buildings designed after foreign models, is surprised on entering York Minster or St. Peter's at Rome, by the feeling that these structures are imitations also, -- faint copies of an invisible archetype. Nor has science sufficient humanity, so long as the naturalist overlooks that wonderful congruity which subsists between man and the world; of which he is lord, not because he is the most subtile inhabitant, but because he is its head and heart, and finds something of himself in every great and small thing, in every mountain stratum, in every new law of color, fact of astronomy, or atmospheric influence which observation or analysis lay open. A perception of this mystery inspires the muse of George Herbert, the beautiful psalmist of the seventeenth century. The following lines are part of his little poem on Man.

"Man is all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And to all the world besides.
Each part may call the farthest, brother;
For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.
"Nothing hath got so far
But man hath caught and kept it as his prey;
His eyes dismount the highest star;
He is in little all the sphere.
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.

"For us, the winds do blow,
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow;
Nothing we see, but means our good,
As our delight, or as our treasure;
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

"The stars have us to bed:
Night draws the curtain; which the sun withdraws.
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind,
In their descent and being; to our mind,
In their ascent and cause.

"More servants wait on man
Than he'll take notice of. In every path,
He treads down that which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him."

The perception of this class of truths makes the attraction which draws men to science, but the end is lost sight of in attention to the means. In view of this half-sight of science, we accept the sentence of Plato, that, "poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history." Every surmise and vaticination of the mind is entitled to a certain respect, and we learn to prefer imperfect theories, and sentences, which contain glimpses of truth, to digested systems which have no one valuable suggestion. A wise writer will feel that the ends of study and composition are best answered by announcing undiscovered regions of thought, and so communicating, through hope, new activity to the torpid spirit.

I shall therefore conclude this essay with some traditions of man and nature, which a certain poet sang to me; and which, as they have always been in the world, and perhaps reappear to every bard, may be both history and prophecy.

`The foundations of man are not in matter, but in spirit. But the element of spirit is eternity. To it, therefore, the longest series of events, the oldest chronologies are young and recent. In the cycle of the universal man, from whom the known individuals proceed, centuries are points, and all history is but the epoch of one degradation.

`We distrust and deny inwardly our sympathy with nature. We own and disown our relation to it, by turns. We are, like Nebuchadnezzar, dethroned, bereft of reason, and eating grass like an ox. But who can set limits to the remedial force of spirit?

`A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams. Now, the world would be insane and rabid, if these disorganizations should last for hundreds of years. It is kept in check by death and infancy. Infancy is the perpetual Messiah, which comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads with them to return to paradise.

`Man is the dwarf of himself. Once he was permeated and dissolved by spirit. He filled nature with his overflowing currents. Out from him sprang the sun and moon; from man, the sun; from woman, the moon. The laws of his mind, the periods of his actions externized themselves into day and night, into the year and the seasons. But, having made for himself this huge shell, his waters retired; he no longer fills the veins and veinlets; he is shrunk to a drop. He sees, that the structure still fits him, but fits him colossally. Say, rather, once it fitted him, now it corresponds to him from far and on high. He adores timidly his own work. Now is man the follower of the sun, and woman the follower of the moon. Yet sometimes he starts in his slumber, and wonders at himself and his house, and muses strangely at the resemblance betwixt him and it. He perceives that if his law is still paramount, if still he have elemental power, if his word is sterling yet in nature, it is not conscious power, it is not inferior but superior to his will. It is Instinct.' Thus my Orphic poet sang.

At present, man applies to nature but half his force. He works on the world with his understanding alone. He lives in it, and masters it by a penny-wisdom; and he that works most in it, is but a half-man, and whilst his arms are strong and his digestion good, his mind is imbruted, and he is a selfish savage. His relation to nature, his power over it, is through the understanding; as by manure; the economic use of fire, wind, water, and the mariner's needle; steam, coal, chemical agriculture; the repairs of the human body by the dentist and the surgeon. This is such a resumption of power, as if a banished king should buy his territories inch by inch, instead of vaulting at once into his throne. Meantime, in the thick darkness, there are not wanting gleams of a better light, -- occasional examples of the action of man upon nature with his entire force, -- with reason as well as understanding. Such examples are; the traditions of miracles in the earliest antiquity of all nations; the history of Jesus Christ; the achievements of a principle, as in religious and political revolutions, and in the abolition of the Slave-trade; the miracles of enthusiasm, as those reported of Swedenborg, Hohenlohe, and the Shakers; many obscure and yet contested facts, now arranged under the name of Animal Magnetism; prayer; eloquence; self-healing; and the wisdom of children. These are examples of Reason's momentary grasp of the sceptre; the exertions of a power which exists not in time or space, but an instantaneous in-streaming causing power. The difference between the actual and the ideal force of man is happily figured by the schoolmen, in saying, that the knowledge of man is an evening knowledge, vespertina cognitio, but that of God is a morning knowledge, matutina cognitio.

The problem of restoring to the world original and eternal beauty, is solved by the redemption of the soul. The ruin or the blank, that we see when we look at nature, is in our own eye. The axis of vision is not coincident with the axis of things, and so they appear not transparent but opake. The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is, because man is disunited with himself. He cannot be a naturalist, until he satisfies all the demands of the spirit. Love is as much its demand, as perception. Indeed, neither can be perfect without the other. In the uttermost meaning of the words, thought is devout, and devotion is thought. Deep calls unto deep. But in actual life, the marriage is not celebrated. There are innocent men who worship God after the tradition of their fathers, but their sense of duty has not yet extended to the use of all their faculties. And there are patient naturalists, but they freeze their subject under the wintry light of the understanding. Is not prayer also a study of truth, -- a sally of the soul into the unfound infinite? No man ever prayed heartily, without learning something. But when a faithful thinker, resolute to detach every object from personal relations, and see it in the light of thought, shall, at the same time, kindle science with the fire of the holiest affections, then will God go forth anew into the creation.

It will not need, when the mind is prepared for study, to search for objects. The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common. What is a day? What is a year? What is summer? What is woman? What is a child? What is sleep? To our blindness, these things seem unaffecting. We make fables to hide the baldness of the fact and conform it, as we say, to the higher law of the mind. But when the fact is seen under the light of an idea, the gaudy fable fades and shrivels. We behold the real higher law. To the wise, therefore, a fact is true poetry, and the most beautiful of fables. These wonders are brought to our own door. You also are a man. Man and woman, and their social life, poverty, labor, sleep, fear, fortune, are known to you. Learn that none of these things is superficial, but that each phenomenon has its roots in the faculties and affections of the mind. Whilst the abstract question occupies your intellect, nature brings it in the concrete to be solved by your hands. It were a wise inquiry for the closet, to compare, point by point, especially at remarkable crises in life, our daily history, with the rise and progress of ideas in the mind.

So shall we come to look at the world with new eyes. It shall answer the endless inquiry of the intellect, -- What is truth? and of the affections, -- What is good? by yielding itself passive to the educated Will. Then shall come to pass what my poet said; `Nature is not fixed but fluid. Spirit alters, moulds, makes it. The immobility or bruteness of nature, is the absence of spirit; to pure spirit, it is fluid, it is volatile, it is obedient. Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you. For you is the phenomenon perfect. What we are, that only can we see. All that Adam had, all that Caesar could, you have and can do. Adam called his house, heaven and earth; Caesar called his house, Rome; you perhaps call yours, a cobler's trade; a hundred acres of ploughed land; or a scholar's garret. Yet line for line and point for point, your dominion is as great as theirs, though without fine names. Build, therefore, your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend the influx of the spirit. So fast will disagreeable appearances, swine, spiders, snakes, pests, madhouses, prisons, enemies, vanish; they are temporary and shall be no more seen. The sordor and filths of nature, the sun shall dry up, and the wind exhale. As when the summer comes from the south; the snow-banks melt, and the face of the earth becomes green before it, so shall the advancing spirit create its ornaments along its path, and carry with it the beauty it visits, and the song which enchants it; it shall draw beautiful faces, warm hearts, wise discourse, and heroic acts, around its way, until evil is no more seen. The kingdom of man over nature, which cometh not with observation, -- a dominion such as now is beyond his dream of God, -- he shall enter without more wonder than the blind man feels who is gradually restored to perfect sight.'

Since the concept of "art" has historically had a considerable range and variety of meanings, it is understandable that there has been much confusion and disagreement in discussions of esthetics or philosophy of art. These perplexities can be dispelled once art is viewed in terms of essentials.[1]

The Two Valid Concepts of "Art"

There are two basic, valid concepts of "art," which must be carefully distinguished and clearly defined. One is the more general one that encompasses all products of human skill, all man-made objects or states-of-affairs. This is art as human creation, the "artificial," the man-made. As Mortimer Adler has observed, it is historically the prior of the two concepts:

Until the end of the eighteenth century, the word "art" was very broadly used to cover all forms of human skill and all the things which men were able to produce by skilled workmanship. [2]

Within this broad category, there are many possible subdivisions. One in particular is that between the so-called "utilitarian arts" and "fine arts," the latter traditionally including painting, sculpture, literature, music, dance, and theater. Many people sense implicitly, and rightly so, that there actually is some fundamental difference between at least some "fine art" objects and all other man-made things.

This feeling apparently grew so strong during the nineteenth century that the word "art" came to be applied, more narrowly than before, to the "fine arts" only. [3] Yet, as we shall see, there is no firm, objective criterion for differentiating all of the so-called "fine arts" from the rest of human products. Nor can there be one.

Fortunately, however, there is one criterion that provides a sound basis for differentiating certain (but not all) "fine art" objects from all other man-made objects. This criterion is incorporated into the definition of the other valid concept of "art," the narrower concept of art as human re-creation.

In her writings on esthetics, Ayn Rand has given the fullest definition of this concept. She defines "art" as: "a selective re-creation of reality, according to an artist's metaphysical value-judgments (by means of a specific material medium)." [4]

By selective re-creation, art isolates and integrates those aspects of reality which represent man's fundamental view of himself and of existence. Out of the countless number of concretes -- of single, disorganized and (seemingly) contradictory attributes, actions and entities -- an artist isolates the things which he regards as metaphysically essential and integrates them into a single new concrete that represents an embodied abstraction. [5]

By "selective re-creation of reality," Rand means the creating of an edited, stylized version or image of (some aspect of) reality, out of materials existing in reality. She does not use the word herself, but what she is clearly speaking of is the setting up within reality, using materials from reality, of a microcosm, an artist's conception of (some aspect of) reality. [6]

Such an image is constructed "according to one's metaphysical value-judgments." That is, it includes things regarded by its creator as metaphysically important and excludes things he or she regards as metaphysically unimportant. Thus, a selective re-creation of reality is, in effect, a concretizationof a metaphysical view.[7]

In order to represent (concretize) a metaphysical view, furthermore, an image must necessarily present a metaphysical (existential) setting. Such a setting involves an entity (such as a man, still-life, or landscape) -- or some other discriminated existent (such as a musical tone or a shadow) that bears analogy to an entity, by virtue of its concrete existence, identity, and actions.

That is, a selective re-creation of reality that concretizes a metaphysical view must present an image of some intelligible subject, not just mere patterns of attributes. It must, in this sense, be "representational."

Or, to restate this in the contrapositive form: man-made objects presenting images that fail to include entities (or other discriminated existents) thus fail to represent a metaphysical view. (They do represent the absence of such a view, however, as do all other objects that are not art.)

Art as a Tool of Cognition

The reason that images that fail to include entities (or other discriminated existents) thus fail to represent a metaphysical view lies in the symbolic nature and function of art -- specifically, in the fact that art is a tool of cognition.

1. Whatis a Tool?In general, a tool is a human contrivance or discovery that serves as the means to fulfilling some requirement of human survival. [8]In some way or other, a tool serves an integrative function. A tool functions so as to help a human being preserve the integrity of his or her organismic structure (ultimately, at least, if not immediately).

In general, Nathaniel Branden points out, "An organism sustains itselfphysically by taking materials from the environment." It reorganizes them and achieves a new integration that converts them into the organism's means of survival. "We can observe an analogous phenomenon in the process by which a consciousness apprehends reality, on both the perceptual and conceptual levels." [9]

Branden further notes that:

Biologically, life is a state and process of integration: the physical integrity of an organism, and the integration of its actions in the direction of life-serving goals, are the pre-condition and essence of biological well-being -- of an organism's success at the task of survival. Any forces that work against integration, work against life; disintegration is motion toward death. [10]

Integration is also basic to the process of cognition. Cognition (i.e., awareness and knowledge of the facts of reality) is the fundamental biological function of the human mind. Since we must act, our survival requires that we apprehend reality, so that we may regulate our behavior accordingly. [11]

Any cognitively disintegrative mental processes hamper or prevent this basic task from being carried out. For this reason, cognitively disintegrative mental processes are contrary to one's biological well-being and are thus biologically disintegrative, as well. [12]

How is it, then, that tools serve an integrative function -- in general and, in particular, for cognition?

A tool, in the usual sense of the term, is an instrument (mechanical device or contrivance), especially one held in the hand (such as a hammer, saw, or file), for the purpose of performing or facilitating mechanical operations. [13] In a secondary sense, however, a tool is also anything used like an instrument of manual operation in order to do work or effect some result (such as a rock used in lieu of a hammer). [14]

More generally, a tool or instrument is a thing with or by which something is effected -- a means, an agency, by which one accomplishes some purpose or end. [15] This broader concept includes not merely things that transmit mechanical forces, but also those which help us to attain knowledge. These latter we will refer to as tools of cognition. [16]

2. Tools of Cognition. A tool of cognition is that which a human being uses to help fulfill the requirements of cognition, which is his or her basic means of survival. That is, a tool of cognition aids us in the activity of integrating our cognitive data.

In the physical realm, our primary tool is our hand, which (being prehensile) provides us with our basic means of physically grasping reality. Analogously, our primary cognitive tool is our conceptual abstractions or concepts -- including integrations of concepts into propositions, arguments, theories, etc. -- which provide us with our basic means of cognitively grasping reality.

Just as we grasp or apprehend reality in a physical manner with our hands, so too we cognitively apprehend reality with conceptual abstractions.

Secondary tools are those which constitute extensions of the primary tools. [17] Secondary tools amplify or refine what primary tools can do. Secondary tools extend the range of what is possible to us without them.

The secondary physical tools (that transmit mechanical forces) serve as extensions of one's hand. The secondary cognitive tools (e.g., language and art) are extensions of one's abstractions into the concrete, physical realm.

Primary and secondary cognitive tools can be conveniently distinguished by the terms abstraction and symbol. (Bear in mind that "abstraction" is short for "conceptual abstraction," and that it is to be distinguished from "emotional abstraction.")

Abstractions and symbols are mutually dependent on one another, just as are one's hands and one's manual tools. Abstractions have very limited usefulness without symbols. Symbols arise in order to implement abstractions and are otherwise cognitively useless.

The function and purpose of primary cognitive tools -- i.e., (conceptual) abstractions -- is to serve as the means of integrating our cognitive data. This expands our consciousness beyond the perceptual level characteristic of animals and small children. [18] Of course, in order for abstractions to fulfill the function of integrating cognitive data, what they integrate must be cognitive data.

A cognitive datum is a content of consciousness that arises when one's perceptual or conceptual faculty is directed toward some aspect of reality. The aspect of reality one is conscious of becomes the object of cognition. The cognitive content is in a cognitive correspondence to, and is cognitively identified with, the object ofcognition. [19]

As one continues to direct, or refer, one's cognitive faculty toward reality, one's cognitive content is referred to the object of cognition. The object of cognition is thus the referent of one's cognitive content. In the same sense, one's cognitive content means the object of cognition, which is the meaning of that content. Thus, to be a cognitive datum, a given content of consciousness must have some aspect of reality as its referent.

Cognitive data on the abstract level are of one or the other of two types: (a) existential cognitive data and (b) psychological cognitive data. Or, concepts of existence (existential concepts) and concepts of consciousness.Or, extrospective concepts and introspective concepts. [20] (This distinction is merely intended to point to the difference between our conceptual awareness of physical and psychological phenomena. In no way does this use of "existential" to describe the former deny that both kinds of phenomena are aspects of reality that do exist.)

On the broadest levels of conceptual abstraction, we are concerned specifically with fundamental facts. In regard to the existential side of reality, we are concerned with the basic nature of the physical world and our relation to it. Such a fundamental grasp is what is referred to by the terms "metaphysical abstraction" or "metaphysical view." And this is to be distinguished abstractions about the basic nature of psychological reality (our mental processes, human consciousness) and our relationship to it -- what might be called "psycho-epistemological abstractions."

The function and purpose of secondary tools of cognition -- i.e., symbols and systems of symbols -- is also a cognitively integrative one. They are the means of physically implementing our primary, abstract tools of cognition (abstractions). [21] Symbols thus serve as concrete tools of cognition. They allow us to concretize and thereby retain the cognitive data integrated by our abstractive faculty into concepts, etc. [22]

In concretizing abstractions, symbols thus convert them and the cognitive data they integrate into the mental equivalent of a concrete. [23] Symbols are concretes that represent -- in the sense of serving or standing as physical proxy for -- some content of consciousness with which they are mentally equated. Symbols exist in a relation of correspondence to those mental contents.

A symbol has no cognitive meaning other than that possessed by the mental contents which it symbolizes (i.e., to which it is held to be mentally equivalent). Only if those mental contents are themselves cognitive data that refer to some aspect of reality, does their symbol have cognitive meaning, as well as mere symbolic reference. In particular, a given symbol's having cognitive meaning is dependent entirely upon its symbolizing a valid abstraction.

As similar as all symbols are in these and other respects, however, they are also clearly distinguishable into two basic types. The ways in which they differ allow them to perform separate, complementary roles as tools of cognition. Those differences show why art is uniquely suited for concretizing our metaphysical abstractions.

3. Cognitive Economy and Symbolic Division of Labor. The two basic types of symbols are linguistic symbols and esthetic symbols -- or language and representational art. All other types of symbols are either disguised instances of, primitive forerunners of, intermediate forms between, or combinations of one of the two basic types. [24]

A linguistic symbol is a concrete which represents an abstraction by means of automatized association. A mental association is arbitrarily established and automatized between the concrete and the abstraction in one's mind.

Linguistic symbols are employed primarily in a system of such concretes. Language is a code of visual-auditory (and/or tactile) symbols that serves the mental function of converting abstractions into the mental equivalent of concretes. [25] That is, by virtue of the act ofautomatized association, the mind treats the abstractions symbolized by language as though they were physicalconcretes, "out there," instead of locked up inside one's head.

An esthetic symbol is a concrete that represents a fundamental abstraction by means of stylized embodiment. The mentalassociation between the concrete and the abstraction in one's mind is neither arbitrary nor automatized. It is sometimes called a "natural" abstraction.

Esthetic symbols are employed primarily in isolation, as individual concretes. (A notable exception to this would be a thematically related showing of artworks by the same artist or different artists -- or a similar concert of musical pieces by one or more composers.)

Representational art is a visual or auditory (and/or tactile) symbol that serves the mental function of converting fundamental abstractions into the mental equivalent of concretes. [26] That is, by virtue of the fact of stylized embodiment, which is automatically recognizable, the mind treats the fundamental abstractions symbolized by representational art as though they were physical concretes "out there," instead of locked up inside one's head.

For both linguistic and esthetic symbols, the various possible symbolic forms correspond to the various forms (i.e., modes or channels) of a conceptually conscious being's cognitive faculty: sight (written language and visual art), hearing (spoken language and music), and touch (Braille and sculpture). [27]

Literature is a special case. It uses linguistic symbols as a means (i.e., a medium) in which to convey esthetic symbols. Through the medium of language, literature conveys a sensory-perceptual set of images which embody fundamental abstractions beyond those conveyed by the language used per se. [28]

A linguistic symbol has a man-made (artificial) relationship to the abstraction which it represents. It is also an arbitrary relationship. Nothing in the nature of such a symbolic concrete necessitates that it be the one used to symbolize a given abstraction. The crucial factor is human volition, the conscious choice to associate a given concrete with a given abstractions.

An esthetic symbol, on the other hand, has a metaphysical (natural) relationship to the abstraction which it represents. It is also a necessary relationship. The relationship, that is, is inherent in the identity of the symbolic concrete and the abstraction symbolized. [29]

This is not meant to suggest that volition is totally absent with regard to esthetic symbols. Indeed, the person who so fashions an esthetic symbol that it is inherently able to symbolize an abstraction upon being perceived, has to do so through a (perhaps arduous) process of volitional thought. Neither the creator nor any other perceiver of the symbol, however, need volitionally automatize an association of the symbol with the abstraction it symbolizes.

Nor is this meant to suggest that an esthetic symbol actually is a symbol apart from some conscious person who employs it as such--nor, consequently, that the relationship between symbol and abstraction exists apart from someone who recognizes that relationship. It is not intrinsically a symbol, apart from someone's consciousness.

Rather, the esthetic symbolic concrete is so structured that it is inherently able to enter into a symbolic relation with an abstraction upon being perceived. An act of artificially assigning the symbolic concrete to a specific abstraction -- and of consciously automatizing the symbolic relationship -- is unnecessary. The abstraction is readily perceived and recognized as being already embodied in the symbolic concrete, in much the same way as if it were embodied in some non-symbolic aspect of reality.

How can two such radically different types of symbols exist? The reason lies in the nature and requirements of the human conceptual faculty.

We form abstractions or concepts, as a system of classification, whenever the scope of our perceptual data becomes too great for our minds to handle. Our conceptual faculty performs the task of reducing a vast amount of information to a minimal number of units. This process takes place according to the principle of unit-economy. [30]

A concept (abstraction) substitutes one symbol (a word) for the enormous perceptual total of concretes that it subsumes. In order to perform its unit-reducing function, the symbol has to function automatically in a person's consciousness. Only in this way will the enormous sum of a concept's referents be instantly available to his conscious mind without the need to mentally summarize or perceptually visualize them. [31]

This automatic function of unit-reducing is achieved by two radically different kinds of symbols and symbol-to-abstraction relationships. One is the automatized association of linguistic symbols. The other is the automatically recognizable, stylized embodiment of esthetic symbols.

These radically differing symbol-to-abstraction relationships are uniquely appropriate to the respective groups of abstractions the symbols are characteristically applied to. This permits linguistic and esthetic symbols to perform distinct but complementary roles in the division of labor by which our concepts are implemented.

Language covers the full range of conceptual knowledge. A system of linguistic symbols based on images or pictures that embodied the abstractions would be woefully inadequate for handling the sheer bulk of the knowledge accumulated by the ancient Sumerians, let alone our present-day culture.

The history of the development of written language is one of gradually more and more economization of linguistic elements. As languages evolved, the total number of distinct marks that have to be made decreased. At the same time, the number of different uses for each mark increased. Thus, mankind arrived at the phonetic-alphabetic system we use today. [32]

Yet, the picture is the basis of all written language. [33] The picture came about because speech and gesture -- the earliest and most universal means of communication available to human beings -- are even more inadequate to our cognitive needs than are pictures. [34]

Granted, speech and gesture allowed mankind to make the giant leap from the perceptual level to the conceptual level of awareness of reality. They suffer, however, from two chief disadvantages: (1) Speech and gesture can be used only in communication between persons more or less in proximity to each other and are, therefore, restricted as to space. [35] (2) Speech and gesture are of momentary duration and are, therefore, restricted to time. As soon as the word is uttered or the gesture made, it is gone and cannot be revived except by repetition. [36]

These two factors gave rise to a need for a way of conveying thoughts and feelings in a form not limited by time and space. This led to the development of methods of communicating by means of objects and markings on objects. [37]

The use of objects for communication most commonly took the form of mnemonic signs. These were used mainly for primitive keeping of accounts and recording of statistics -- e.g., wampum, counting sticks, etc. It was too impractical to develop into a full system of communication. [38]

Communication by means of markings on objects began with pictures. [39] Pictures are the most natural means of communicating ideas for human beings in the primitive stage of development, whether of babies or prehistoric human beings. "Most natural," because of the symbolic relation of embodiment. Being close in appearance to the concretes they represent, they do not place an additional mental demand on a person using them. [40]

In the course of time, simple pictures no longer sufficed. Human cognitive development -- of each individual child and prehistorically of the entire human race -- demands more than pictures can provide. [41] Gradually, "the picture developed in two directions:

    • toward pictorial art, in which pictures continued to reproduce more or less faithfully the objects of the surrounding world in a way independent of language; and
    • towardwriting, in which signs (whether they retained their pictorial character or not) ultimately became conventional symbols for linguistic elements (syllables, words)." [42]

There is an intermediate stage between pictorial art and writing called pictography or ideography. [43] It shares some attributes of each. It is "a system of visual communication which conveys ideas, thoughts, etc., but without using linguistic elements, such as words." [44]

On the one hand, like pictorial art and unlike even the most primitive forms of written language (logography, sometimes also referred to as "picture-writing"), ideography is relatively independent of spoken language, in three respects: (1) the message is expressed by a scene, with no convention as to whether the elements of the scene are sequential, or whether the number of elements of the scene corresponds to the number of words in the message; [45] (2) "the meaning is conveyed without any convention regarding order;" [46] and (3) the sign stands for not only the meanings that are habitually and conventionally associated with it, but for "a certain idea with all its related ramifications." [47]

On the other hand, unlike pictorial art and like writing, ideography achieves efficiency of communication "through the omission of all details not necessary for the understanding of the symbol." [48] Also, unlike either pictorial art or writing, ideography provides no opportunity to communicate basic abstractions, as pictorial art does through stylized embodiment.

So, ideography developed in two very different, but complementary directions:

    • Written language developed from ideography, because the sheer bulk of human abstractions became too great to be handled by a non-conventional system of pictorial symbols.
    • Pictorial art developed from ideography, because our most basic abstractions were too broad to be fully useful to us in the conventionalized form of written language, in which all the concrete, stylizable detail was abstracted away in favor of streamlining and efficiency. We need a more adequate form of communicating those abstractions than speech or gesture.

Pictorial or representational art, in general, covers the domain of our abstractions concerning existence, consciousness, and our relation to them. These fundamental abstractions are also dealt with, although in a linguistic manner, by philosophy. The task of philosophy is to provide us with a comprehensive view of life, which we need as a base, a frame of reference, for all our actions, mental or physical, psychological or existential.

One's metaphysical and epistemological abstractions are of prime importance to one's motivation and moral values. They are involved in every choice one makes, every action one takes, and every emotion one feels., [49, 50] "...all value-choices [and value-responses and seeking of values] rest on an implicit view of the being who values and of the world in which he must act." [51]

However, if the basic abstractions provided by philosophy are to be a usable frame of reference for our actions, we must be able to deal with them. We must be able to retranslate those abstractions into the perceptual concretes for which they stand--to reconnect the abstractions to reality -- and hold them all in the focus of our conscious awareness. [52]

Yet, qua abstractions, these basic abstractions are very difficult (if not impossible) to hold in one's immediate conceptual awareness, for two main reasons:

    • They are diffuse and hard to isolate from the rest of one's contents of consciousness. They are experienced more as feelings than as thoughts.
    • They are inclusive of too many factors for one to be able to hold them fully in one's immediate, focal awareness at a given time. [53, 54]

Also, since qua abstractions (or concepts), they do not exist as such -- but are only our means of viewing that which does exist (which is necessarily concrete) -- one's grasp of them can become extremely precarious at times:

Amidst the incalculable number and complexity of choices that confront a man in his day-by-day existence, with the frequently bewildering torrent of events, with the alternation of successes and failures, of joys that seem too rare and suffering that lasts too long -- he is often in danger of losing his perspective and the reality of his convictions. [55]

Even a rational person, with a fully developed, explicit philosophy, needs this experience. It is not a matter of verification or validation of one's philosophical views. It is a matter of seeing actual instances of those views, especially when much of one's environment seems to contradict them. It provides those philosophical views with an extra dimension of connectedness to reality, in much the same way that a model does in relation to a blueprint. [56]

Fundamental abstractions,in order to "acquire the full, persuasive, irresistible power of reality,"[57] must be concretized (i.e., objectified) and open to one's direct contemplation. This is vital, in order for one to retain one's abstractions -- and the perspective of existence and of consciousness which those abstractions constitute.

There is no way to integrate such an immense sum of abstractions through language alone. We need a way to project them in the form of an integrated concretization that illuminates them and makes them intelligible. So, from the standpoint of cognitive economy, a picture is worth a thousand words, when it comes to symbolizing our fundamental abstractions.

Art, Nature, and Reality

Esthetic symbols, or artworks, are capable of embodying abstractions in reality-like fashion. The specific aspect of an artwork that performs this function is the likeness or image or semblance of the artwork. An esthetic symbol presents a semblance of reality, an imaginary microcosm. This is why we may properly refer to a representational artwork as a "re-creation of reality."

There are two related theories of the nature of art that are based on this notion of art as an imaginary microcosm. One is the ancient theory of art as imitation of nature, and the other is the more modern one of art as re-creation of reality.

These two theories are similar in several key ways:

    • The standard formulations of them are radically misconceived.
    • The standard criticisms leveled against them are, accordingly, misdirected.
    • They can both be used to formulate a proper concept and definition of "art" and, in so doing, to show why and how artworks must be representational.

1. Art as Imitation of Nature. The imitation theory is traditionally said to maintain that an artist copies or reproduces things, people, and events from reality. In so doing, he makes an image that is an "imitation" of them.

Commenting on the imitation theory, philosopher Susanne Langer says:

It is natural enough, perhaps, for naive reflection to center first of all round the relationship between an image and its object; or a graphic description as an imitation of reality...The problem of "imitation," or reproducing the appearance of a model, has harassed philosophers ever since Plato censured art as a "copy of a copy." [58]

Such a traditional view of esthetic imitation is also presented by Monroe C. Beardsley:

[T]he famous aesthetic judgment...of the picture on Achilles' shield...hints at the beginning of wonder about imitation, i.e., the relation between representation and object, or appearance and reality...Plato seems also to regard paintings, dramatic poems, and songs as imitations in a narrower sense: they are images...One kind of making is imitation, which Aristotle seems to take fairly straightforwardly as representation of objects or events. [59]

Against such a view of imitation, one cannot better begin than with the well-known words of Aristotle himself: "In general, then, art in a sense completes what nature is unable to finish, and in a sense imitates nature." [60]

John Herman Randall, Jr., further explains:

Aristotle does not mean that art "mimics" nature: art does not imitate nature's products -- that would be quite impossible...it could not possibly make an oak tree or beget a man. Rather, art does imitate nature's productive activities. It must be remembered that "nature" for Aristotle is a way of acting, and what art imitates is that way...Art does better, more successfully, just what nature does or tries to do; it brings that which is possible in materials to a realization, and thus "completes nature." [61] [emphasis added]

Aristotle, of course, was applying the concept of "imitation" to art in the very broad sense of techne. In this sense, "imitation" applies equally to shipbuilding, for instance, as it does to painting or sculpture. Shipbuilding is a systematic activity directed toward a goal toward which it tends and in terms of which it is defined. Thus, in this sense, human making in general is an imitation of nature.

There is a narrower way to apply Aristotle's concept of "imitation," specifically to the "fine arts." By clarifying it, we will see how to avoid the standard way in which "imitation" is misinterpreted.

Gilbert and Kuhn relate how painters of the Renaissance viewed their art. They studied mathematics, anatomy, etc., in order to arrive at "a total philosophical treatment of nature" that would enable them "to compose a second nature, thus following after God's way and partaking in his perfection." [62] [emphasis added]

In his article on Baumgarten, Giorgio Tonelli says that: "The [fine] artist is not an imitator of nature in the sense that he copies it...he imitates nature in the process of creating a world or a whole." [63] [emphasis added]

These writers are touching on a crucial idea for the philosophy of art: the concept of a microcosm. This is the notion, dating back to the ancient Greeks, that "the structure of the universe can be reflected on a smaller scale in some particular phenomenon..." [64]

Tonelli says that cosmology, the theory of the structure of the universe, is very likely the basis upon which the ancient Greeks developed the doctrine of art as imitation of nature. To see this, however, we must "take imitation in its literal and true meaning, not as the duplication of isolated things, but as the active attempt to participate in a superior perfection." [65] [emphasis added]

In their thinking about cosmology, the ancient Greeks sought a "Unique Principle which should bind together all possible objects within [their] horizon and show them as related expressions of a fundamental law." [66] They typically sought to arrive at "a general theory of the world which puts man and nature into intimate relations with each other and which judges the world in the light of human procedures and values..." [67]

On such a man-oriented cosmology, the notion of "imitation" was bound to be applied to the relation between art and nature. To the ancient Greeks, art was nothing less than a concrete embodiment of their cosmological or metaphysical view of man and existence.

Following Gilbert and Kuhn and Tonelli, we can see that the imitation of nature present in all art (as techne) takes on an added dimension when it occurs in the form of a work of "fine art." Aristotle did not say it explicitly, but it is clear that certain imitations of nature present a man-created microcosm that embodies basic abstractions.

This interpretation of "fine art" as imitation is closely related to the proper view of the re-creation theory of the nature of art. I will now proceed to elucidate the re-creation theory.

2. Art as Re-creation of Reality. Like the imitation theory, the re-creation theory is often misunderstood as saying that the essence of art is the copying or reproducing of things, people, and events from reality. The image of these copied or reproduced things is the "re-creation," according to the standard view.

Again, it is Susanne Langer who provides what seems to be a telling critique:

[An] object that already exists -- a vase of flowers, a living person--cannot be re-created. Besides, a picture is neither a person nor a vase of flowers. It is an image, created for the first time out of things that are not imaginary, but quite realistic -- canvas or paper, and paints or carbon and ink. [68] [emphasis added]

Her remarks are echoed by John Hospers, who writes:

"Art is a re-creation of reality" -- but is all art a re-creation of something, even music? (One would have thought that it was the creation of something, that is, a series of tonal relationships that never existed in that order before the composer created them.) And in what sense does music deal with reality? [69] [emphasis added]

The first thing to note about these criticisms is that they are directed specifically toward a naive, concrete-bound form of the re-creation theory. They focus on things from reality. They are dubious arguments, revolving on an ambiguity in the meaning of the term "re-create." More importantly, they fail to deal with the literal sense of art as a re-creation of reality.

What exactly does "re-creation of reality" mean? As opposed to the re-creation of an aspect of reality, that is. A conceptual analysis of the terms involved is definitely in order.

"Re-create" means: to create anew. [70] Analyzing this definition in turn yields an important distinction. First of all, "create" means: to bring into existence. [71] Secondly, "anew" has two distinct meanings: (a) again, and (b) in a new form. [72] Thus, "re-create" can mean either:

    • to bring into existence again (that which no longer exists); or
    • to bring into existence in a new form(that which exists, existed, or will exist, in some other form).

In the fundamental philosophical sense of the term, "reality" means: that which exists independently of ideas concerning it. [73] In alternate terms, it also means: that which is real [74] or (since "real" means: being an actual thing with objective existence): [75] that which is an actual thing with objective existence.

Thus, reality is the universe, the totality of that which exists. Reality is the concrete, actual world of entities, their actions and attributes.

Since this objective reality does exist, "re-creation of reality" cannot mean: bringing reality into existence again. First, reality is everything which exists, and it exists now. So anything additional which comes to exist is merely an augmentation of reality, not a re-creation of it, in this sense.

Secondly, such an attempt to bring reality into existence again could not be made from a void, but only from previously existing elements of reality. Thus, it is actually not a re-creation of reality, but rather the bringing into existence of a duplicate of a previous state of reality, minus those elements taken to construct the duplicate. (This is necessarily one-half of that previous state.)

Such an unlikely state of affairs is, therefore, not the simultaneous existence of two realities -- the old one and a new one. Instead, it is only one reality, consisting of two identical halves, one of which has been constructed from what were previously elements of the now-diminished other half.

So, instead, "re-creation of reality" must mean: bringing reality into existence in a new form. But in what other form than its concrete, actual form might reality exist?

The answer is found in the area of psychology dealing with our cognitive awareness of reality. We are capable of narrowing our mental focus to some aspect of reality, some segment of our field of awareness. We are able to regard that aspect or segment as if it were a world or universe, a reality as if nothing else existed, as if it were all that existed. This attitude or mental set is a psychological pre-condition of esthetic experience. [76]

It is further possible that a given segment of reality may display what a person regards as most fundamentally significant or important about reality. (This means that a vast number of less relevant or significant aspects of reality will somehow be absent.)

Such a segment of reality is thus a microcosm: a particular phenomenon that reflects the structure of the universe on a smaller scale. (The frame of reference, of course, is a given person's own, perhaps tacit, view of the universe.) Were a person to view that segment of reality, that microcosm, he would have the distinct impression that he were viewing reality itself.

Note that this is not a reality which is being created, but the reality which is being re-created. It is the (one and only) reality, shown in an enhanced and clarified manner, purified of elements that a given person holds to be irrelevant and distracting.

Of course, this impression is just that: an impression, a seeming-like or semblance of the reality. It is (the one and only) reality in semblance-form, rather than the actual-form (in which it already exists as an unrepeatable and thus literally unre-creatable form).

Even if what the segment of reality displays does not reflect a given person's own view of the universe, he may well perceive it as reflecting someone else's view, or at least a possible view for someone. Thus, the esthetic function of the segment of reality is the same, regardless of one's quite differing evaluation and responses to the reflected views themselves.

Human beings are capable of creating entities that are semblance-forms of reality. That is, we are capable of creating reality in a semblance-form or image. Since this created image of reality is a new form of existence, different from that of which it is an image, we speak of it as a "re-creation of reality." (From this, it is only a short step to Ayn Rand's definition of art as "a selective re-creation of reality, according to an artist's metaphysical value-judgments." [77])

Now we can see what is wrong with Langer's critique of the naive formulation of the re-creation theory. It is now clear that even though it is not the primary re-creation in the picture, the vase or the living person is indeed re-created. The sense of "re-create" that Langer correctly attacks, "being brought into existence again," is only one of the possibilities.

The other sense of "re-create" is that of being brought into existence in another form. In this latter sense, the vase and the living person certainly are re-created.

On a secondary level, then, the picture is at once the creation of an imageof a person or vase (as Langer maintains) and the re-creationof a person or vase (as Langer denies. On the primary level, similarly, the picture is both the creation of an image (microcosmic version) of reality and the re-creation (a microcosmic version) of reality.

The embodied abstraction represented by the artwork is not the concept of the entity presented within the symbol's image. It is, rather, the abstract meaning embodied in that entity's image.

Thus, an artwork differs from pictographic symbols in a very precise, specific way. A pictograph uses an image of an entity in order to convey the abstraction or concept of the entity itself. An artwork, on the other hand, uses an image of an entity in order to convey another, broader abstraction exemplified by that imaginary entity.

For instance, a painting of a man might convey an abstract view of the heroism possible to human beings and of the world as being benevolently open to human effort. A pictograph, on the other hand, would merely convey the concept of "man" itself. In each, the image of a man is presented. The difference lies in what is represented, which is only possible by means of a re-creation (the creation of an image) of reality.

We can deal with Hospers' criticisms in a similar manner, although it is somewhat more difficult to do so. The question of what aspects of reality can be found as secondary re-creations in music is not so easy to answer. Once we exhaust the trivial category of onomatopoetic effects (e.g., the call of the cuckoo, the rumble of the thunderstorm, the murmur of the brook, the ring of the anvil, etc.), we seem to be left with patterns of sound.

The answer seems to lie in music's ability to give rise to sensory and mental processes that have qualities and inter-relationships similar to those in other very specific experiences. Similarities are commonly experienced between certain kinds of musical passages and visual experience and our mental grasping of a goal-directed series of events.

The impressions which these conscious processes give rise to can, under ideal conditions, be quite vivid. They are the natural basis of program music, such as Beethoven's 6th Symphony, Richard Strauss' Alpine symphony, and the Anvil Chorus -- and applied program music, such as opera and movies and television soundtracks.

To the extent that one's mind experiences the musical sounds in a way analogous to its experience of goal-directed progressions, the musical sounds are the creation of an image of such events and the re-creation of such events. Again, on the primary level, the musical work is both the creation of an image of reality and the re-creation of reality -- to the extent that it functions as a microcosmic context for the musical sounds. [78]

Thus, we see that, even in the difficult case of music, all art is a re-creation of reality, insofar as it lends itself to be perceived as a semblance-form of reality, a microcosm, a world-in-miniature. To that same extent that his work may be so regarded, an artist may be said to engage in the imitation of nature.

In this respect, it does not matter what specific "imitations" or "re-creations" are found in artworks. The essence of art is the microcosm that contains some "re-creation" or other, some "imitation" or other.

The theories of art as "imitation of nature" and "re-creation of reality" are thus seen to be intimately related. They are complementary, fundamental theories of the nature of art.

If there is any preference for one theory over the other, it is for the more modern, re-creation theory. There are two reasons for preferring it to the imitation theory:

    • The re-creation theory more explicitly highlights the microcosmic nature of art.
    • The re-creation theory avoids the anthropomorphic connotation of Nature as a conscious or goal-directed Creator.

The Invalid Category of "Fine Art"

I have just identified two valid concepts of art. I will now examine one of the other, non-essential, invalid notions and classifications of art: "fine art" (as opposed to "utilitarian art.")

1. Art as Human Creation (a valid concept). Art in the sense of the artificial or the manmade is a concept that pertains to the product of human activity: a thing or state of affairs which is the end-result of conscious, purposive human activity. Frequently, the activity and the capacity, "know-how," or skill to engage in that activity are also denoted by the term "art" in its more general usage.

In Aristotelian terms, we may regard capacity (potential) and product (actualization of potential) as being mediated by activity (actualizing of potential). If we then proceed by reference to "art as activity," we may define the different aspects of human creation as follows:

    • "Art as skill" is: the capacity to engage in art-as-activity.
    • "Art as product" or "artwork" is: the end (result, product) of art-as-activity.
    • The central term, "art as activity," is: the skilled, purposive human rearranging of certain elements in reality. Or, more simply: human creation.

Since all three of these aspects of the broader meaning of "art" are so directly related, the above choice of "art as activity" as the central one is somewhat optional. The important point to bear in mind is that they are all aspects of the broader concept of "art."

The real problems begin with attempts to single out a smaller class within this wider genus of skillfully man-made objects. The difficulty is to find a justifiable way to refer to this smaller group as "art," in a sense distinct from and narrower than art-as-human-creation. As John Hospers writes:

Art is a term of which definitions are inevitably persuasive. The word "art" has a favorable emotive meaning, at least to those who practice the arts and talk about them. And thus anyone who has cherished ideals on the subject will want to use the word "art" to denote whatever kind of product he venerates most highly. Semantically, this makes the situation extremely confused, though of course it is quite understandable. [79]

Whether "referentialist" or "formalist," "representationalist" or "non-represen- tationalist," "objective" or "abstract," many esthetic theoreticians define "art" in this "persuasive" manner. They take the position that if a given man-made object does not fulfill the requirements met by their theoretical approach to art, then such an object is not an artwork, by their view. Instead, they refer to it as "false art" or "non-art" or "junk" or whatever term they wish to use in denoting that which does not agree with their own "stipulative" definition.

This arbitrary elitism about art, however, is not the only alternative to the all-tolerant egalitarianism of the avant-garde. One can also rule out certain man-made objects according to one's theoretical view of art, if one arrives at one's concept of "art" objectively, as Ayn Rand has done.

What distinguishes her concept and definition of "art" from those which are merely persuasive or stipulative is that she has arrived at them in full regard of cognitive necessity, including the relevant facts about human value, human needs, and human consciousness. This is so in much the same manner that an objective validation of the laws of logic renders them unchallengeable axioms, rather than merely "stipulative" or "persuasive" (i.e., arbitrary) prescriptions.

The laws of logic are prescriptions, true -- but only because first and foremost they are descriptions of the facts of reality. As objective prescriptions, the laws of logic -- as well as all valid definitions and narrower scientific and moral laws -- tell one to act in accordance with the facts they describe, if one wants to act successfully. [80]

Other theorists have used an esthetic criterion of some sort or other as their basis for differentiating man-made objects into various categories of art. But as we shall see for several more familiar instances, none of these provides a clear-cut means by which an observer can determine objectively (i.e., by reference to the facts) whether or not a given man-made object falls in one category or another.

Such difficulties have led some philosophers to advocate that we no longer refer to any category of artificial objects as "art" -- at least, not without some qualification. Notably, there is Mortimer Adler, who advises us that:

[W]e would do well to return to the traditional and broad use of the term "art" to cover every form of human skill and everything that man can effect by means of skill. Then within this broad meaning, we can distinguish different types of art and at the same time recognize what is common to all of them. [81]

This, however, would be a counsel of despair. It would lend support to the skeptic, conventionalist position. It would be a surrender to the notion that no objectively superior criterion can be found (since none has yet) for isolating one group of man-made things from all the rest. One can certainly agree that it would be unfair and arbitrary to select one of the criteria offered thus far as a basis for singling out any subgroup of artificial things, calling them and only them "art."

If that were the only option open to us, we would properly avoid it in the interest not merely of egalitarianism or "fairness," but of objectivity and respect for the facts. If that were the situation, we would be well advised to follow Dr. Adler's suggestion and use the unmodified term "art" only for the broadest sense and use qualifiers (e.g., "liberal," "servile," "utilitarian," "fine," "commercial," "industrial," "decorative," etc.) to modify any narrower applications of the term.

With this last, I am certainly in sympathy. The last thing I wish to do here is to endorse the Fallacy of the Frozen Abstraction. [82] That is, I would not want to freeze a concept to a shrunken state that includes only some of its legitimate units. Also, from the standpoint of linguistics, it sounds considerably more graceful to say "utilitarian art" or "the commercial arts" or "a work of decorative art," rather than to say, for instance, "the utilitarian object- making skill" or "the commercial object-making area of activity" or "a decorative man-made object."

So, on the one hand, I see no compelling reason to abandon or ignore the broader use of the term "art," nor to avoid qualifications of it such as the above. But, on the other hand, I do not share the belief of Adler and others that we must restrict ourselves to it.

First of all, it has been observed (by Adler himself) that the term "art" has within the past 200 years become widely applied, primarily for esthetic reasons, to the specific case of the so-called "fine arts." Some or all of these "fine art" creations were thought -- in some strongly felt, but hard to specify manner -- to be the ultimate products of creative human imagination. At the very least, they were believed to be essentially different, different in kind, from other human products.

Secondly, if the respect by which "fine art" objects can be objectively isolated and defined, then our culture's persistent usage of the term "art" in both a broad and a narrow sense can be validated. And it is, in fact, the narrower concept of "art" -- art as selective re-creation of reality, according to an artist's metaphysical value-judgments -- that provides such an objective basis for justifiably using the term "art" in the narrower sense than pertains to the "fine arts."

Thirdly, there is little danger of confusion between the wider and narrower usages. The wider one is seldom used as an unqualified term, except for such obviously broader usages such as "the art of playing bridge," "the art of love," "the art of logic," etc. Such qualified instances of the broader usage are easily distinguishable from the narrower one.

One way to fully appreciate the unique appropriateness of the differentia "selective re-creation of reality" is to examine and analyze faulty differentia that have been proposed in the past. The most noteworthy and frequently encountered of these is the one associated with the traditional distinction between the "utilitarian" and "fine" arts.

2. The Fine Art/Utilitarian Art Distinction. The so-called "fine arts" have been held to be distinct from other human products in that they were non-utilitarian objects -- specifically, esthetic objects. Rather than intended for practical, everyday use, they were specifically intended for contemplation.

The reason this distinction does not hold up under scrutiny is twofold:

    • "Fine art" does serve a practical need -- a need of human consciousness. It is invalid to limit the concept of "practicality" to actions directed toward one's physical survival. The survival and maintenance of one's consciousness is just as important and practical as the survival and maintenance of one's body.
    • More importantly, any object in the world -- artificial or natural, let alone "fine" or "utilitarian" -- can become an object of contemplation.

As John Hospers points out, in regard to the latter:

Much confusion results from the failure to remember that "the esthetic" refers [primarily] to a kind of attitude rather then the objects toward which that attitude is taken...Confusion enters when we ask whether the...objects...are in themselves esthetic; actually what is esthetic is our attitude toward them--and this can be esthetic in some occasions and not on others...I see no theoretical limit to the number of objects toward which it is possible to take the esthetic attitude. [83]

This rules out any classification based on an object's actual contemplative function or the viewer's attitude. What if, instead, we base it on the creator's attitude or intent -- i.e., the contemplative function for which the man-made object was intended? What if we say that "fine art" objects are those which are (primarily) intended as esthetic, contemplative objects, rather than as utilitarian objects?

This criterion, too, provides a field-day for subjectivism. Only here it is the subjective whim of the creator, instead of the viewer, that determines what is or is not to count as a "fine art" object. Far from delimiting the "fine arts" (painting, sculpture, music, dance, theater, literature) from other man-made objects, it again blows our category of "fine art" wide open.

According to this definition, anyone with absolutely no talent or training can come along and create some nondescript object and call it "art." On this criterion, he would be justified in doing so merely because he intended it primarily as a contemplative (rather than utilitarian) object. This view is the wellspring from which have oozed forth such "artworks" as a bale of hay painted in blue-and-white polka dots, or two strips of black tape running along a museum floor parallel to the wall, or a "musical composition" consisting of several minutes of silence.

Not only that: someone could make what would normally be a utilitarian object-- e.g., a table, an automobile, a pencil, etc. -- and exhibit it in a museum, calling it "art."

This has, in fact, been done, which shows that the suggested definition not only renders the category of "fine art" so broad as to be meaningless, but also makes it useless for distinguishing between "fine art" and "utilitarian art" objects.

Such is the result of trying to define and delimit a subcategory of man-made things according to someone's attitude, rather than according to the nature of the things themselves. Such is the result of failing to specify a clear, objective criterion for differentiating all or some "fine art" objects from the rest of man-made objects.

The remedy for such debasing of the world of art is objectivity. We must look at the nature of the various entities involved and focus on the things they do and the characteristics they possess. Otherwise, search as we might, we will never find a non-arbitrary way to distinguish paintings, sculpture, etc. from other things and to call the former, and only the former, "art."

People have, in fact, made such a distinction for centuries -- arbitrarily. They were relatively safe, until the "non-objective" or "abstract art" people moved in and succeeded in battering down the flimsy, ostensive-definitional walls that had been set up to segregate the "fine arts" from the rest of human products.

In the final analysis, this was a beneficial thing to have happen. It keeps "objective" or "representationalist" art advocates honest. It requires us to be explicit and conceptually precise in our defense of representational art. The merely arbitrary and subjective will no longer suffice in this issue.

Its value, in other words, is that it spurs us on to provide a rational, objective basis for our distinction of certain "fine art" objects from the rest of man-made things. It challenges us to put a firm foundation in place of the traditional emotionalistic grounds which are so easily and justifiably rejected by anyone with a speck of intellectual self- respect.

Note, however, that it also pushes us to the recognition that the "fine art" vs. "utilitarian art" distinction is non-fundamental and of limited cognitive import. Whatever limited value there may be in viewing human productive activity according to this classificatory scheme dwindles rapidly, once a clever skeptic comes along and turns the screws tight enough to shatter such a non-objective classification.

Of course, there is always some knowledge -- however limited its application or importance -- to be gained from studying intent or attitude or other psychological factors involved in art. But if we are to carry out our original program of providing a fundamental differentia by which to classify man-made objects, then it is to the attributes of the objects that we must refer.

Just such a differentia has been offered here. It sets "representational fine art" objects apart from all other man-made things (including "non-representational fine art" objects that do not embody a basic abstraction). We can now objectively examine, and accept or reject, the asserted purpose of the creator and the asserted experience of the viewer, in terms of what is actually there in the object:

    • If a creator claims to have re-created reality in terms of his metaphysical value-judgments, but cannot specifically show or explain by reference to his creation exactly what metaphysical aspect of reality he views therein, then we know that he is either a poor artist or worse: a person trying to undercut and destroy the field of art.
    • If a viewer claims to have viewed a re-creation of reality according to the artist's metaphysical value-judgments, but cannot specifically show or explain by reference to the object viewed exactly what metaphysical aspect of reality he views therein, then we know that he is either deluded or worse: someone trying to delude us.

For an object to be a re-creation of reality, it must present something (i.e., some content) somehow (i.e., by some means). And if the aspect of reality allegedly presented is claimed to be more "abstract" or difficult to grasp, but no one can demonstrate that it is really there, we can and must presume that it is not.

Art as selective re-creation of reality, according to an artist's metaphysical value-judgments, is the only fundamental and objective criterion that allows an intelligent observer to judge what is or is not art. It is also the only way of validly retaining the traditional "art as fine art" formulation, even in part. It entails a recognition of the nature, fundamental value, and purpose of fine art: namely, as a representational symbol.

To summarize: there may be some usefulness in viewing human creative, productive activity according to the fine art/utilitarian art distinction. As a cognitive classification, though, it is disastrous -- as skeptics are quick to show us. By failing to specify the essence of certain man-made objects, as against all other man-made and natural objects, this distinction provides no justification for claiming the philosophy of art to be anything narrower than the study of human, productive activity in general. For this purpose as well, then, the narrower concept of art as "re-creation of reality" is cognitively indispensable. It is the only way to get at the essence of art and, in so doing, provide the foundation for a valid theory of esthetics. [84]

Notes

1. This essay is adapted from "The Nature of Art, Deriving a Rational Esthetics," the third chapter of an unpublished manuscript, Esthetics, Objectively, which was commissioned in 1971 by Equity Incorporated (Milo A.Schield, Joel Myklebust, and Douglas B. Rasmussen) and completed in 1991. I appreciate very much their generous financial support of the research and writing that went into the manuscript--the present essay appearing here with their permission--as well as their providing me the opportunity to present portions of my work at a series of Equitarian Associates conferences they sponsored around the Midwest between 1971 and 1974. I also gratefully acknowledge the editorial assistance of Stephen C. Boydstun in preparing this essay for publication in Objectivity.

2. Mortimer Adler, Great Ideas from the Great Books, New York: Washington Square Press, Inc., 1961, p. 229.

3. Op cit., p. 230.

4. Ayn Rand, "The Psycho-Epistemology of Art" (1965), The Romantic Manifesto, 2nd rev. ed., New York, Signet, 1975, p. 19. The bracketed material is from ibid., "Art and Cognition" (1971), p. 78.

5. Op cit., pp. 19-20.

6. It should be noted that while Leonard Peikoff appears to have first made explicit use of this concept in discussing Rand's view of art in his lectures on The Philosophy of Objectivism in 1975-6, my use of it in reference to her ideas dates back to 1972 and is drawn from other sources, noted below. I find it ironic and unfortunate that an earlier version of this essay was rejected for journal publicationin 1974, when an anonymous screener claimed that the concept of a "microcosm" did not provide significant clarification of Rand's view of art. But perhaps it is not so surprising, after all, since Peikoff himself hardly gives the idea more than passing mention in his lecture and his book, Objectivism: the Philosophy of Ayn Rand, New York, Dutton, 1991, p. 417. Part of the mission of this essay, then, is to create a wider awareness of the pregnant possibilities of this concept.

[Special note, April 2000: in this essay and a later piece, "Music and PerceptualCognition," originally published in Journal of Ayn Rand Studies, vol. 1, no. 1, 1999, I simply assumed without bothering to confirm that Peikoff used the term "microcosm" in his 1976 lecture, since his 1991 book based on that lecture used the term. However, I recently acquired a set of the tapes of his 1975-76 lectures on Objectivism and found to my great chagrin that the word "microcosm" appeared nowhere in his lecture on art. The upshot of this, beyond the uncomfortable revelation of my own scholarly shortcomings, is that Peikoff's altogether correct use of the term appears to be not the result of Rand's prompting and/or approval, but of Peikoff's own further analysis of and insight into the nature of art. This both adds to Peikoff's intellectual stature and removes this particular observation from the body of "official" Objectivism. What did appear in Peikoff's 1976 lecture that echoed my own 1974 wording was the observation that "re-creation of reality" means to create reality anew, and not in the sense of creating another reality in the same form as the original (matter out of a void, according to many religious cosmologies), but creating reality in a different form (out of materials existing in this reality). That "different form" is a symbolic image or "semblance" (Susanne Langer's term) of reality -- an imaginary world, as it were. This particular formulation, using the word "anew", did,it appears, have Rand's approval.]

7. See Rand, "The Psycho-Epistemology of Art," p. 20.

8. American College Dictionary, New York, Random House, Inc., 1964.

9. Nathaniel Branden, The Psychology of Self-Esteem, Los Angeles, Nash Publishing Co., 1969, p. 27.

10. Op cit., p. 95.

11. Op cit., pp. 27, 91.

12. Op cit., p. 91.

13. American College Dictionary.

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid.

16. To my knowledge, Rand first used this term in "For the New Intellectual," For the New Intellectual, New York, Signet, 1961, p. 55, in her statement that "Emotions are not tools of cognition."

17. American College Dictionary.

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