ibe certain {181} typical forms which it assumes. These
forms will serve not only to illustrate its general meaning, but also
to amplify that meaning in a manner that will prove important when we
come to the discussion of moral questions. The forms which I shall
mention are by no means exhaustive of the possible forms of the
interest in apprehension, while the order that I shall follow is only
roughly the order of increasing complexity.

There is, in the first place, an interest in _sensation_. I do not, of
course, mean to assert that any state of purely sensuous enjoyment is
possible; but only that the senses have a certain bias of their own
which will modify every state in which they are called into play.
There is a delight of the eye and ear, a pleasantness to the touch, an
agreeableness of taste and smell, wholly without reference to anything
beyond. The arts which employ any of these senses must satisfy their
bias, however much they may appeal to higher faculties; nothing which
rankly offends them can by any possible means be made beautiful. Thus
painting must be charming in color, and music in tone; and certain
colors and tones are charming for no deeper reason than that which
makes certain foods palatable.

The interest in _perception_[3] assumes special prominence in the great
visual art of painting. For the process of perception is most
elaborated {182} in connection with the sense of vision, this being
peculiarly the human organ of watchfulness and orientation. The
interest in perception is the interest in completing the sensation or
rounding it into an object or situation with the aid of thought and
imagination. In painting, as most commonly in life, the stimulus is
visual--texture, perspective, or a quality of light.

The _emotional_ form of apprehension plays the predominant part in
representations of human action, in music, and in the appreciation of
nature. It is in this latter connection that we can, I think, best
understand it; and I propose for purposes of illustration to record an
experience of my own.

I walked one night on the deck of a steamer plying between New York and
Bermuda, and gave myself up wholly to the aspect of nature. The moon
shone brightly half-way between the horizon and zenith, and opened a
path of light from where I stood to the uttermost distance. With
half-closed eyes I watched the hard lustre of the waves, or turned from
this to the smooth roll of the foam turned