"What consolation is it to the offended mind, that "art has so grossly betrayed itself to imitation? "Its aversion arose not from the presumption that "the evil was real, but from the mere representation "of it, and that is real. The feeling of disgust 'therefore, if felt at all, must be felt in reality, not “in imagination.”

ઃઃ

All this is equally applicable to ugliness of form. This ugliness offends our sight, contradicts our taste for arrangement and harmony, and awakens disgust, without any reference to the actual existence of the object, in which we perceive it. We may see Thersites either in nature or in a picture; and if the picture should be the least displeasing of the two, this does not result from the ugliness of his form ceasing to be such in imitation, but from our possessing the power of withdrawing attention from this ugliness, and deriving our pleasure exclusively from the art of the painter. But even this pleasure will every moment be interrupted by the reflection, how bad has been the application of the art, and this reflection seldom fails of drawing with it disregard, or contempt, for the artist.

Aristotle adduces another cause," why objects which we view with displeasure in nature, may impart enjoyment even when most faithfully represented, viz. the general thirst for knowledge among men. We are pleased when we can learn from the imitation, b De Poetica. cap. iv.

Tí KaσTOV, what each thing is, or when we can conclude from it ὅτι δυτος ἐκεινοs that it represents an object which we remember to have seen before; but no inference can be drawn from this in favour of ugliness in imitation. The pleasure which arises from the satisfaction of our thirst for knowledge is momentary, and merely accidental to the object which affords it; while the feeling of annoyance, which accompanies the sight of ugliness is permanent, and essential to the object which awakes it. How then can this last be counterbalanced by the first? Still less can the trifling degree of pleasurable interest, afforded by the observation of the similitude, overcome its displeasing effect. The more closely I compare the ugly picture with the ugly original, the more I expose myself to this effect, so that the pleasure of comparison presently vanishes, and nothing remains but the disagreeable impression of a double ugliness. To judge from the examples which Aristotle gives us, it appears that he had no intention of classing simple ugliness of form among those displeasing objects, which are capable of affording pleasure when imitated. These examples are wild beasts and corpses. Wild beasts awaken terror, although they are not ugly; and it is this terror, and not their ugliness, which by imitation is resolved into pleasurable sensations. So too it is with corpses. It is the acuter feelings of pity, and the terrible thought of our future annihilation, that render a corpse a repulsive object to us in

nature; but in the imitation, this pity loses its most painful part, through our consciousness of illusion; and an addition of soothing circumstances may either entirely withdraw our thoughts from this fatal recollection, or unite itself so inseparably with it, that we believe we can perceive therein more to look forward to with desire, than to shrink from with horror.

Ugliness of form, then, cannot in itself be a subject for painting, as a fine art; for the feelings, which it arouses, are not only displeasing, but are not even of that class in which the disagreeable, when imitated, is changed into the pleasurable. Still it remains a question, whether, as an ingredient for strengthening other sensations, it may not be serviceable to art as well as to poetry?

May painting, to attain the ridiculous and the horrible, make use of ugly forms?

I will not venture to answer directly in the negative. It is undeniable that harmless ugliness can be made ridiculous in painting as well as in poetry; especially if an affected assumption of charm and beauty is combined with it; but it is just as indisputable, that harmful ugliness excites the same horror in painting as in nature; and that the ridiculous and the horrible, both of which are, in themselves, mixed sensations, attain by imitation, the former a higher degree of attraction, the latter of offensiveness.

I must, however, call attention to the fact that, in spite of this, painting and poetry do not stand in precisely the same position. In poetry, as I observed, ugliness of form, through its parts being changed from coexisting into successive, almost entirely loses its repulsive effect; in this point of view therefore ceasing, as it were, to be ugliness, it can therefore, the more cordially combine with other appearances, to produce a new and peculiar effect. In painting, on the contrary, ugliness exerts all its powers at once, and affects us but little less deeply than in nature. Harmless ugliness, consequently, cannot long remain ridiculous; the unpleasant sensation gains the upper hand, and what at first was comic becomes in the course of time simply repulsive. It is just the same with hurtful ugliness; the horrible disappears by degrees, and the disproportion is left behind alone and unchangeable.

On these considerations, Count Caylus was perfectly right in omitting the episode of Thersites in his series of Homeric paintings, but does it therefore follow that we should be justified in wishing that it had been altogether left out of the poem? I am sorry to find that a scholar of, otherwise, just and refined taste, is of this opinion; but I reserve for another opportunity the fuller explanation of my views upon this point.

© Klotzii Epistolæ Homericæ, p. 33.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE second distinction, which the critic I have just quoted draws between disgust and the other disagreeable passions of the soul, is also shown by the displeasure, which ugliness of form excites in us.

"Other disagreeable passions, he says,a may, even "in nature, setting aside imitation, find frequent opportunities of flattering the mind; because they "never excite pure aversion, but always temper their "bitterness with gratification. Our fear is seldom deprived of all hope. Terror animates all our powers to provide us with an escape from the "danger anger is commingled with the desire of revenge, and sorrow with the soothing recollection "of former happiness; while compassion is insepar"able from the tender feelings of love and affection. "The soul has the power of dwelling at one time upon the pleasing, at another upon the repulsive

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parts of a passion, and of creating for itself a "mixture of pleasure and sorrow, which is far more "seductive than the purest gratification. It requires "but little attention to the workings of our own "mind, to have observed this times without number. a Klotzii Epistolæ Homericæ, p. 103.