rsonal; for Nature is, and ever must be, at least the
sensuous ground of all Art: and where the outward and inward are
so united that we cannot separate them, there shall we find the
perfection of Art. So complete a union has, perhaps, never been
accomplished, and _may_ be impossible; it is certain, however,
that no approach to excellence can ever be made, if the _idea_ of
such a union be not constantly looked to by the artist as his ultimate
aim. Nor can the idea be admitted without supposing a _third_ as
the product of the two,--which we call Art; between which and Nature,
in its strictest sense, there must ever be a difference; indeed, a
_difference with resemblance_ is that which constitutes its
essential condition.

It has doubtless been observed, that, in this inquiry concerning the
nature and operation of the first characteristic, the presence of the
second, or verifying principle, has been all along implied; nor could
it be otherwise, because of their mutual dependence. Still more will
its active agency be supposed in our examination of the third, namely,
Invention. But before we proceed to that, the paramount index of the
highest art, it may not be amiss to obtain, if possible, some distinct
apprehension of what we have termed Poetic Truth; to which, it will be
remembered, was also prefixed the epithet Human, our object therein
being to prepare the mind, by a single word, for its peculiar sphere;
and we think it applicable also for a more important reason,
namely, that this kind of Truth is the _true ground of the
poetical_,--for in what consists the poetry of the natural world,
if not in the sentiment and reacting life it receives from the human
fancy and affections? And, until it can be shown that sentiment and
fancy are also shared by the brute creation, this seeming effluence
from the beautiful in nature must rightfully revert to man. What, for
instance, can we suppose to be the effect of the purple haze of a
summer sunset on the cows and sheep, or even on the more delicate
inhabitants of the air? From what we know of their habits, we
cannot suppose more than the mere physical enjoyment of its genial
temperature. But how is it with the poet, whom we shall suppose
an object in the same scene, stretched on the same bank with the
ruminating cattle, and basking in the same light that flickers from
the skimming birds. Does he feel nothing more than the genial warmth?
Ask him, and he perhaps will say,--"This is