hing, is, that it is a red, or a black, or a
green, or a white thing. Nay, say the artists; that is an
unphilosophical and barbarous view of the matter. Red and white are mere
vulgar appearances; look farther into the matter, and you will see such
and such wonderful other appearances. Abstract those, _they_ are the
heroic, epic, historic, and generally eligible appearances. And acting
on this grand principle, they draw flesh white, leaves white, ground
white, everything white in the light, and everything black in the
shade--and think themselves wise. But, the longer I live, the more
ground I see to hold in high honor a certain sort of childishness or
innocent susceptibility. Generally speaking, I find that when we first
look at a subject, we get a glimpse of some of the greatest truths about
it: as we look longer, our vanity, and false reasoning, and
half-knowledge, lead us into various wrong opinions; but as we look
longer still, we gradually return to our first impressions, only with a
full understanding of their mystical and innermost reasons; and of much
beyond and beside them, not then known to us, now added (partly as a
foundation, partly as a corollary) to what at first we felt or saw. It
is thus eminently in this matter of color. Lay your hand over the page
of this book,--any child or simple person looking at the hand and book,
would perceive, as the main fact of the matter, that a brownish pink
thing was laid over a white one. The grand artist comes and tells you
that your hand is not pink, and your paper is not white. He shades your
fingers and shades your book, and makes you see all manner of starting
veins, and projecting muscles, and black hollows, where before you saw
nothing but paper and fingers. But go a little farther, and you will get
more innocent again; you will find that, when "science has done its
worst, two and two still make four;" and that the main and most
important facts about your hand, so seen, are, after all, that it has
four fingers and a thumb--showing as brownish pink things on white
paper.

Sec. 22. I have also been more and more convinced, the more I think of it,
that in general _pride is at the bottom of all great mistakes_. All the
other passions do occasional good, but whenever pride puts in _its_
word, everything goes wrong, and what it might really be desirable to
do, quietly and innocently, it is mortally dangerous to do, proudly.
Thus, while it is very often good for the artist