The True is the Beautiful. Whenever this becomes evident to our senses, its influences are of a soul-elevating character. The beautiful, whether it is perceived in the external forms of matter, associated in the harmonies of light and colour, appreciated in the modulations of sweet sounds, or mingled with those influences which are, as the inner life of creation, ever appealing to the soul through the vesture which covers all things, is the natural theme of the poet, and the chosen study of the philosopher.

But, it will be asked, where is the relation between the stern labours of science and the ethereal system which constitutes poetry? The fumes of the laboratory, its alkalies and acids, the mechanical appliances of the observatory, its specula and its lenses, do not appear fitted for a place in the painted bowers of the Muses. But, from the labours of the chemist in his cell,—from the multitudinous observations of the astronomer on his tower,—spring truths which the philosopher employs to interpret nature’s mysteries, and which give to the soul of the poet those realities to which he aspires in his high imaginings.

Science solicits from the material world, by the persuasion of inductive search, a development of its elementary principles, and of the laws which these obey. Philosophy strives to apply the discovered facts to the great phenomena of being,—to deduce large generalities from the fragmentary discoveries of severe induction,—and thus to ascend from matter and its properties up to those impulses which stir the whole, floating, as it were, on the confines of sense, and indicating, though dimly, those superior powers which, more nearly related to infinity, mysteriously manifest themselves in the phenomena of mind. Poetry seizes the facts of the one and the theories of the other; unites them by a pleasing thought, which appeals for truth to the most unthinking soul, and leads the reflective intellect to higher and higher exercises; it connects common phenomena with exalted ideas; and, applying its holiest powers, it invests the human mind with the sovereign strength of the True.

Truth is the soul of the poet’s thought;—truth is the reward of the philosopher’s toil; and their works, bearing this stamp, live among men through all time. Science at present rejoices in her ministry to the requirements of advancing civilization, and is content to receive the reward given to applications which increase the comforts of life, or add to its luxuries. Every improvement in the arts or manufactures, beyond encreasing utilities for society, has a tendency to elevate the race. Science is ever useful in the working days of our week, but it is not to be neglected on our Sabbath,—when, resting from our labours, it becomes agreeable to contemplate the few truths permitted to our knowledge, and thus enter into communion as closely as is allowed to finite beings, with those influences which involve and interpenetrate the earth, giving to all things Life, Beauty, and Divinity.

The human mind naturally delights in the discovery of truth; and even when perverted by the constant operations of prevailing errors, a glimpse of the Real comes upon it like the smile of daylight to the sorrowing captive of some dark prison. The Psychean labours to try man’s soul, and exalt it, are the search for truth beneath the mysteries which surround creation,—to gather amaranths, shining with the hues of heaven, from plains upon which hang, dark and heavy, the mists of earth. The poet may pay the debt of nature,—the philosopher may return to the bosom of our common mother,—even their names fade in the passage of time, like planets blotted out of heaven but the truths they have revealed to man burn on for ever with unextinguishable brightness. Truth cannot die; it passes from mind to mind, imparting light in its progress, and constantly renewing its own brightness during its diffusion. The True is the Beautiful; and the truths revealed to the mind render us capable of perceiving new beauties on the earth. The gladness of truth is like the ringing voice of a joyous child, and the most remote recesses echo with the cheerful sound. To be for ever true is the Science of Poetry,—the revelation of truth is the Poetry of Science.

Man, a creation endued with mighty faculties, but a mystery to himself, stands in the midst of a wonderful world, and an infinite variety of phenomena arise around him in strange form and magical disposition, like the phantasma of a restless night.

The solid rock obeys a power which brings its congeries of atoms into a thousand shapes, each one geometrically perfect. Its vegetable covering, in obedience to some external excitation, developes itself in a curious diversity of forms, from the exquisitely graceful to the singularly grotesque, and exhibits properties still more varied and opposed. The animal organism quickened by higher impulses,—powers working within, and modifying the influence of the external forces,—presents, from the Monad to the Mammoth, and through every phase of being up to Man, a yet more wonderful series of combinations, and features still more strangely contrasted.

Lifting our searching gaze into the measureless space beyond our earth, we find planet bound to planet, and system chained to system, all impelled by a universal force to roll in regularity and order around a common centre. The pendulations of the remotest star are communicated through the unseen bond; and our rocking world obeys the mysterious impulse throughout all those forces which regulate the inorganic combinations of this earth, and unto which its organic creation is irresistibly compelled to bow.

The glorious sun by day, and the moon and stars in the silence and the mystery of night, are felt to influence all material nature, holding the great Earth bound in a many-stranded cord which cannot be broken. The tidal flow of the vast ocean, with its variety of animal and vegetable life, the atmosphere, bright with light, obscured by the storm-cloud, spanned by the rainbow, or rent with the explosions of electric fire,—attest to the might of these elementary bonds.

These are but a few of the great phenomena which play their part around this globe of ours, exciting men to wonder, or shaking them with terror.

The mind of man, in its progress towards its higher destiny, is tasked with the physical earth as a problem, which, within the limits of a life, it must struggle to solve. The intellectual spirit is capable of embracing all finite things. Man is gifted with powers for studying the entire circle of visible creation; and he is equal, under proper training, to the task of examining much of the secret machinery which stirs the whole.

In dim outshadowing, earth’s first poets, from the loveliness of external nature, evoked beautiful spiritualizations. To them the shady forests teemed with aËrial beings,—the gushing springs rejoiced in fantastic sprites,—the leaping cataracts gleamed with translucent shades,—the cavernous hills were the abodes of genii,—and the earth-girdling ocean was guarded by mysterious forms. Such were the creations of the far-searching mind in its early consciousness of the existence of unseen powers. The philosopher picked out his way through the dark and labyrinthine path, between effects and causes, and slowly approaching towards the light, he gathered semblances of the great Reality, like a mirage, beautiful and truthful, although still but a cloud-reflection of the vast Unseen.

It is thus that the human mind advances from the Ideal to the Real, and that the poet becomes the philosopher, and the philosopher rises into the poet; but at the same time as we progress from fable to fact, much of the soul-sentiment which made the romantic holy, and gave a noble tone to every aspiration, is too frequently merged in a cheerless philosophy which clings to the earth, and reduces the mind to a mechanical condition, delighting in the accumulation of facts, regardless of the great laws by which these are regulated, and the harmony of all Telluric combinations secured. In science we find the elements of the most exalted poetry; and in the mysterious workings of the physical forces we discover connections with the illimitable world of thought,—in which mighty minds delight to try their powers,—as strangely complicated, and as marvellously ordered, as in the psychological phenomena which have, almost exclusively, been the objects of their studies.

In the aspect of visible nature, with its wonderful diversity of form and its charm of colour, we find the Beautiful; and in the operations of these principles, which are ever active in producing and maintaining the existing conditions of matter, we discover the Sublime.

The form and colour of a flower may excite our admiration; but when we come to examine all the phenomena which combine to produce that piece of symmetry and that lovely hue,—to learn the physiological arrangement of its structural parts,—the chemical actions by which its woody fibre and its juices are produced,—and to investigate those laws by which is regulated the power to throw back the white sunbeam from its surface in coloured rays,—our admiration passes to the higher feeling of deep astonishment at the perfection of the processes, and of reverence for their great Designer. There are, indeed, “tongues in trees;” but science alone can interpret their mysterious whispers, and in this consists its poetry.

To rest content with the bare enunciation of a truth, is to perform but one half of a task. As each atom of matter is involved in an atmosphere of properties and powers, which unites it to every mass of the universe, so each truth, however common it may be, is surrounded by impulses which, being awakened, pass from soul to soul like musical undulations, and which will be repeated through the echoes of space, and prolonged for all eternity.

The poetry which springs from the contemplation of the agencies which are actively employed in producing the transformation of matter, and which is founded upon the truths developed by the aids of science, should be in no respect inferior to that which has been inspired by the beauty of the individual forms of matter, and the pleasing character of their combinations.

The imaginative view of man and his world—the creations of the romantic mind—have been, and ever will be, dwelt on with a soul-absorbing passion. The mystery of our being, and the mystery of our ceasing to be, acting upon intelligences which are for ever striving to comprehend the enigma of themselves, leads by a natural process to a love for the Ideal. The discovery of those truths which advance the human mind towards that point of knowledge to which all its secret longings tend, should excite a higher feeling than any mere creation of the fancy, how beautiful soever it may be. The phenomena of Reality are more startling than the phantoms of the Ideal. Truth is stranger than fiction. Surely many of the discoveries of science which relate to the combinations of matter, and exhibit results which we could not by any previous efforts of reasoning dare to reckon on, results which show the admirable balance of the forces of nature, and the might of their uncontrolled power, exhibit to our senses subjects for contemplation truly poetic in their character.

We tremble when the thunder-cloud bursts in fury above our heads. The poet seizes on the terrors of the storm to add to the interest of his verse. Fancy paints a storm-king, and the genius of romance clothes his demons in lightnings, and they are heralded by thunders. These wild imaginings have been the delight of mankind; there is subject for wonder in them: but is there anything less wonderful in the well-authenticated fact, the dew-drop which glistens on the flower, that the tear which trembles on the eye-lid, holds locked in its transparent cells an amount of electric fire equal to that which is discharged during a storm from a thunder-cloud?

In these studies of the effects which are continually presenting themselves to the observing eye, and of the phenomena of causes, as far as they are revealed by Science in its search of the physical earth, it will be shown that beneath the beautiful vesture of the external world there exists, like its quickening soul, a pervading power, assuming the most varied aspects, giving to the whole its life and loveliness, and linking every portion of this material mass in a common bond with some great universal principle beyond our knowledge. Whether by the improvement of the powers of the human mind, man will ever be enabled to embrace within his knowledge the laws which regulate these remote principles, we are not sufficiently advanced in intelligence to determine. But if admitted even to a clear perception of the theoretical Power which we regard as regulating the known forces, we must still see an unknown agency beyond us, which can only be referred to the Creator’s will.