USE AND BEAUTY
Herbert Spencer(1852); from The Works, vol 14; 1966 Osnabrueck
In one of his essays, Emerson
remarks, that what Nature at one time provides for use, she afterwards
turns to ornament; and he cites in illustration the structure of a sea-shell,
in which the parts that have for a while formed the mouth are at the next
season of growth left behind, and become decorative nodes and spines.
Ignoring the implied teleology,
which does not here concern us, it has often occurred to me that this same
remark might be extended to the progress of Humanity. Here, too,
appliances of one era serve as embellishments to the next. Equally
in institutions, creeds, customs, and superstitions, we may trace this
evolution of beauty out of what was once purely utilitarian.
The contrast between the feeling
with which we regard portions of the Earth's surface still left in their
original state, and the feeling with which the savage regarded them, is
an instance that comes first in order of time. If any one walking
over Hampstead Heath, will note how strongly its picturesqueness is brought
out by contrast with the surrounding cultivated fields and the masses of
houses lying in the distance; and will further reflect that, had this irregular
gorse-covered surface extended on all sides to the horizon, it would have
looked dreary and prosaic rather than pleasing; he will see that to the
primitive man a country so clothed presented no beauty at all. To
him it was merely a haunt of wild animals, and a ground out of which roots
might be dug. What have become for us places for relaxation and enjoyment-places
for afternoon strolls and for gathering flowers-were his place for labour
and food, probably arousing in his mind none but utilitarian association.
Ruined castles afford obvious instances
of this metamorphosis of the useful into the beautiful. To feudal
barons and their retainers, security was the chief, if not the only end,
sought in choosing the sites and styles of their strongholds. Probably
they aimed as little at the picturesque as do the builders of cheap brick
houses in our modern towns. Yet what were erected for shelter and
safety, and what in those early days fulfilled an important function in
the social economy, have now assumed a purely ornamental character. They
serve as scenes for picnic; pictures of them decorate our drawing-rooms;
and each supplies its surrounding districts with legends for Christmas
Eve.
On following out the train of thought
suggested by this last illustration, we may see that not only do the material
exuviae of the past social states become the ornaments of our landscapes;
but that past habits, manners, and arrangements, serve as ornamental elements
in our literature. The tyrannies which, to the serfs who bore them,
were harsh and dreary facts; the feuds which, to those who took part in
them, were very practical life-and-death affairs; the mailed, moated, sentinelled
security which was irksome to nobles who needed it; the imprisonments,
and tortures, and escapes, which were stern and quite prosaic realities
to all concerned in them; have become to us material for romantic tales-material
which, when woven into Ivanhoes and Marmions, serves for amusement on leisure
hours, and becomes poetic by contrast with our daily lives.
Thus, also, is it with extinct
creeds. Stonehenge, which in the hands of the Druids had a governmental
influence over men, is in our day a place for antiquarian excursions; and
its attendant priests are worked up into an opera. Greek sculptures, preserved
for their beauty in our galleries of art, and copied for the decoration
of pleasure grounds and entrance halls; once lived in men's minds as gods
demanding obedience; as did also the grotesque idols that now amuse the
visitors to our museums.
Equally marked is this change of
functions in the case of minor superstitions. The fairy lore, which
in past times was matter of grave belief, and held sway over people's
conduct, have since been transformed into ornament for A Midsummer Night's
Dream, The Tempest, The Fairy Queen, and endless small
tales and poems; and still affords subjects for children's story-books,
themes for ballets, and plots for Planche's burlesques. Gnomes, and
genii, and afrits, losing their terrors, give piquancy to the woodcuts
in our illustrated edition of Arabian Nights. While ghost-stories,
and tales of magic and witchcraft, after serving to amuse boys and girls
in their leisure hours, become matter for jocose allusions that enliven
tea-tables conversation.
Even our serious literature and
our speeches are relieved by ornaments drawn from such sources. A
Greek myth is often used as a parallel by which to very the monotony of
some grave argument. The lecturer breaks the dead level of his practical
discourse by illustrations drawn from bygone customs, events, or beliefs.
And metaphors, similarly derived, give brilliancy to political orations,
and to Times leading articles.
Indeed, on careful inquiry, I think
it will be found that we turn to purposes of beauty most bygone phenomena
which are at all conspicuous. The busts of great men in our libraries,
and their tombs in our churches; the once useful but now purely ornamental
heraldic symbols; the monks, nuns, and convents, which give interest to
a certain class of novels; the bronze mediaeval soldiers used for embellishing
drawing-rooms; the gift Apollos which reclines on time-pieces; the narratives
that serve as plots for our great dramas; and the events that afford subjects
for historical pictures;--these and such like illustrations of the metamorphosis
of the useful into the beautiful, are so numerous as to suggest that, did
we search diligently enough, we should find that in some place, or under
some circumstance, nearly every notable product of the past has assumed
a decorative character.
And here the mention of historical
pictures reminds me that an inference may be drawn from all this, bearing
directly on the practice of art. It has of late years been a frequent
criticism upon our historical painters, that they err in choosing their
subjects from the past; and that, would they found a genuine and vital
school, they must render on canvas the life and deeds and aims of our own
time. If, however there be any significance in the forgoing facts,
it seems doubtful whether this criticism is a just one. For if it
be the course of things that what has performed some active function in
society during one era, becomes available for ornament in a subsequent
one; it almost follows that, conversely, whatever is performing some active
function now, or has very recently performed one, does not possess the
ornamental character; and is, consequently, inapplicable to any purpose
of which beauty is the aim, or of which it is a needful ingredient.
Still more reasonable will this
conclusion appear, when we consider the nature of this process by which
the useful is changed into the ornamental. An essential pre-requisite
to all beauty is contrast. To obtain artistic effect, light must
be put in juxtaposition with shade, bright colours with dull colours, a
fretted surface with a plain one. Forte passages in music must have
piano passages to relieve them; concerted pieces need interspersing
with solos; and rich chords must not be continuously repeated. In the drama
we demand contrast of characters, of scenes, of sentiments, of style.
In prose composition an eloquent passage should have a comparatively plain
setting; and in poems great effect is obtained by occasional change of
versification. This general principle will, I think, explain the transformation
of the bygone useful into the present beautiful. It is by virtue
of their contrast with our present modes of life, that past modes of life
look interesting and romantic. Just as a picnic, which is a temporary
return to an aboriginal condition, derives, from its unfamiliarity, a certain
poetry which it would not have were it habitual; so, everything ancient
gains, from its relative novelty to us, an element of interest. Gradually
as, by the growth of society, we leave behind the customs, manners, arrangements,
and all the products, material and mental, of a bygone age--gradually as
we recede from these so far that there arises a conspicuous difference
between them and those we are familiar with; so gradually do they begin
to assume to us a poetical aspect, and become applicable for ornament.
And hence it follows that things and events which are close to us, and
which are accompanied by associations of ideas not markedly contrasted
with our ordinary associations, are relatively inappropriate for
purposes of art. I say relatively because an incident of modern life
or even of daily life may acquire adequate fitness for art purposes by
an unusualness of some other kind than that due to unlikeness between past
and present.
(This text is complete; no Japanese translation
yet.)