he treats. In a really beautiful work of art, the
substance ought to be inoperative, the form should do everything; for by
the form the whole man is acted on; the substance acts on nothing but
isolated forces. Thus, however vast and sublime it may be, the substance
always exercises a restrictive action on the mind, and true aesthetic
liberty can only be expected from the form. Consequently the true search
of the matter consists in destroying matter by the form; and the triumph
of art is great in proportion as it overcomes matter and maintains its
sway over those who enjoy its work. It is great particularly in
destroying matter when most imposing, ambitious, and attractive, when
therefore matter has most power to produce the effect proper to it, or,
again, when it leads those who consider it more closely to enter directly
into relation with it. The mind of the spectator and of the hearer must
remain perfectly free and intact; it must issue pure and entire from the
magic circle of the artist, as from the hands of the Creator. The most
frivolous subject ought to be treated in such a way that we preserve the
faculty to exchange it immediately for the most serious work. The arts
which have passion for their object, as a tragedy for example, do not
present a difficulty here; for, in the first place, these arts are not
entirely free, because they are in the service of a particular end (the
pathetic), and then no connoisseur will deny that even in this class a
work is perfect in proportion as amidst the most violent storms of
passion it respects the liberty of the soul. There is a fine art of
passion, but an impassioned fine art is a contradiction in terms, for the
infallible effect of the beautiful is emancipation from the passions.
The idea of an instructive fine art (didactic art) or improving (moral)
art is no less contradictory, for nothing agrees less with the idea of
the beautiful than to give a determinate tendency to the mind.

However, from the fact that a work produces effects only by its
substance, it must not always be inferred that there is a want of form in
this work; this conclusion may quite as well testify to a want of form in
the observer. If his mind is too stretched or too relaxed, if it is only
accustomed to receive things either by the senses or the intelligence,
even in the most perfect combination, it will only stop to look at the
parts, and it will only see matter in the most beautiful form. Only
sensib