also receive pleasure from many things which seem to us fragmentary; for instance, from actual views in Nature,—­as we shall hope to show in another place.  It is sufficient at present, that, in relation to Art, the law of the imagination demands a whole; in order to which not a single part must be felt to be wanting; all must be there, however imperfectly rendered; nay, such is the craving of this active faculty, that, be they but mere hints, it will often fill them out to the desired end; the only condition being, that the part hinted be founded in truth.  It is well known to artists, that a sketch, consisting of little more than hints, will frequently produce the desired effect, and by the same means,—­the hints being true so far as expressed, and without an hiatus.  But let the artist attempt to finish his sketch, that is, to fill out the parts, and suppose him deficient in the necessary skill, the consequence must be, that the true hints, becoming transformed to elaborate falsehoods, will be all at variance, while the revolted imagination turns away with disgust.  Nor is this a thing of rare occurrence:  indeed, he is a most fortunate artist, who has never had to deplore a well-hinted whole thus reduced to fragments.

These are facts; from which we may learn, that with less than a whole, either already wrought, or so indicated that the excited imagination can of itself complete it, no genuine response will ever be given to any production of man.  And we learn from it also this twofold truth; first, that the Idea of a Whole contains in itself a preexisting law; and, secondly, that Art, the peculiar product of the Imagination, is one of its true and predetermined ends.

As to its practical application, it were fruitless to speculate.  It applies itself, even as truth, both in action and reaction, verifying itself:  and our minds submit, as if it had said, There is nothing wanting; so, in the converse, its dictum is absolute when it announces a deficiency.

To return to the objection, that we often receive pleasure from many things in Nature which seem to us fragmentary, we observe, that nothing in Nature can be fragmentary, except in the seeming, and then, too, to the understanding only,—­to the feelings never; for a grain of sand, no less than a planet, being an essential part of that mighty whole which we call the universe, cannot be separated from the Idea of the world without a positive act of the reflective faculties, an act of volition; but until then even a grain of sand cannot cease to imply it.  To the mere understanding, indeed, even the greatest extent of actual objects which the finite creature can possibly imagine must ever fall short of the vast works of the Creator.  Yet we nevertheless can, and do, apprehend the existence of the universe.  Now we would ask here, whether the influence of a real,—­and the epithet here is not unimportant,—­whether the influence of a real Whole is at no time felt without an act of consciousness,