volves all
things out of itself.

The proposition would indeed have a high significance, if it taught
Art to emulate this creative force; but the sense in which it was
meant can scarcely be doubtful to one acquainted with the universal
condition of Science at the time when it was first brought forward.
Singular enough that the very persons who denied all life to Nature
should set it up for imitation in Art! To them might be applied the
words of a profound writer:[5] "Your lying philosophy has put Nature
out of the way; and why do you call upon us to imitate her? Is it that
you may renew the pleasure by perpetrating the same violence on the
disciples of Nature?"

Nature was to them not merely a dumb, but an altogether lifeless
image, in whose inmost being even no living word dwelt; a hollow
scaffolding of forms, of which as hollow an image was to be
transferred to the canvas, or hewn out of stone.

This was the proper doctrine of those more ancient and savage nations,
who, as they saw in Nature nothing divine, fetched idols out of her;
whilst, to the susceptive Greeks, who everywhere felt the presence of
a vitally efficient principle, genuine gods arose out of Nature.

But is, then, the disciple of Nature to copy everything in Nature
without distinction?--and, of everything, every part? Only beautiful
objects should be represented; and, even in these, only the Beautiful
and Perfect.

Thus is the proposition further determined, but, at the same time,
this asserted, that, in Nature, the perfect is mingled with the
imperfect, the beautiful with the unbeautiful. Now, how should he who
stands in no other relation to Nature than that of servile imitation,
distinguish the one from the other? It is the way of imitators to
appropriate the faults of their model sooner and easier than its
excellences, since the former offer handles and tokens more easily
grasped; and thus we see that imitators of Nature in this sense have
imitated oftener, and even more affectionately, the ugly than the
beautiful.

If we regard in things, not their principle, but the empty abstract
form, neither will they say anything to our soul; our own heart, our
own spirit we must put to it, that they answer us.

But what is the perfection of a thing? Nothing else than the creative
life in it, its power to exist. Never, therefore, will he, who fancies
that Nature is altogether dead, be successful in that profound process
(analogous to the chemical) wh