{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3751/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3751","id":"gutenberg_3751","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3751","summary":null,"tags":["Aesthetics","Art","Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Psychiatry/Psychology"],"text":"Ver.07/27/01*END*\n\n\n\n\nThis Project Gutenberg Etext prepared by Tony Adam\nAnthony-adam@tamu.edu\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Psychology of Beauty\n\nby Ethel D. Puffer\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nTHE human being who thrills to the experience of beauty in\nnature and in art does not forever rest with that experience\nunquestioned.  The day comes when he yearns to pierce the\nsecret of his emotion, to discover what it is, and why, that\nhas so stung him--to defend and to justify his transport to\nhimself and to others.  He seeks a reason for the faith that\nis in him.  And so have arisen the speculative theories of\nthe nature of beauty, on the one hand, and the studies of\nconcrete beauty and our feelings about it, on the other.\nSpeculative theory has taken its own way, however, as a\npart of philosophy, in relating the Beautiful to the other\ngreat concepts of the True and the Good; building up an\narchitectonic of abstract ideas, far from the immediate\nfacts and problems of the enjoyment of beauty.  There has\ngrown up, on the other hand, in the last years, a great\nliterature of special studies in the facts of aesthetic\nproduction and enjoyment.  Experiments with the aesthetic\nelements; investigations into the physiological psychology\nof aesthetic reactions; studies in the genesis and development\nof art forms, have multiplied apace.  But these are still\nmere groups of facts for psychology; they have not been taken\nup into a single authoritative principle.  Psychology cannot\ndo justice to the imperative of beauty, by virtue of which,\nwhen we say \"this is beautiful,\" we have a right to imply\nthat the universe must agree with us.  A synthesis of these\ntendencies in the study of beauty is needed, in which the\nresults of modern psychology shall help to make intelligible\na philosophical theory of beauty.  The chief purpose of this\nbook is to seek to effect such a union.\n\nA way of defining Beauty which grounds it in general principles,\nwhile allowing it to reach the concrete case, is set forth in\nthe essay on the Nature of Beauty.  The following chapters aim\nto expand, to test, and to confirm this central theory, by\nshowing, partly by the aid of the aforesaid special studies,\nhow it accounts for our pleasure in pictures, music, and\nliterature.\n\nThe whole field of beauty is thus brought under discussion;\nand therefore, though it nowhere seeks to be exhaustive in\ntreatment, the book may fairly claim to be a more or less\nconsistent and complete aesthetic theory, and hence to\naddress itself to the student of aesthetics as well as to the\ngeneral reader.  The chapter on the Nature of Beauty, indeed,\nwill doubtless be found by the latter somewhat technical, and\nshould be omitted by all who definitely object to professional\nphraseology.  The general conclusions of the book are\nsufficiently stated in the less abstract papers.\n\nOf the essays which compose the following volume, the first,\nthird, and last are reprinted, in more or less revised form,\nfrom the \"Atlantic Monthly\" and the \"International Monthly.\"\nAlthough written as independent papers, it is thought that\nthey do not unduly repeat each other, but that they serve to\nverify, in each of the several realms of beauty, the truth\nof the central theory of the book.\n\nThe various influences which have served to shape a work of\nthis kind become evident in the reading; but I cannot refrain\nfrom a word of thanks to the teachers whose inspiration and\nencouragement first made it possible.  I owe much gratitude\nto Professor Mary A. Jordan and Professor H. Norman Gardiner\nof Smith College, who in literature and in philosophy first\nset me in the way of aesthetic interest and inquiry, and to\nProfessor Hugo Munsterberg of Harvard University, whose\nphilosophical theories and scientific guidance have largely\ninfluenced my thought.\n\nWELLESLEY COLLEGE, April 24, 1905.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n                                                      PAGE\nI.    CRITICISM AND AESTHETICS.............................1\nII.   THE NATURE OF BEAUTY................................27\nIII.  THE AESTHETIC REPOSE................................57\nIV.   THE BEAUTY OF FINE ART..............................89\n        A.  THE BEAUTY OF VISUAL FORM.....................91\n        B.  SPACE COMPOSITION AMONG THE OLD MASTERS......128\nV.    THE BEAUTY OF MUSIC................................149\nVI.   THE BEAUTY OF LITERATURE...........................203\nVII.  THE NATURE OF THE EMOTIONS OF THE DRAMA............229\nVIII. THE BEAUTY OF IDEAS................................263\n\n\n\nI\nCRITICISM AND AESTHETICS\n\n\n\nTHE PSYCHOLOGY OF BEAUTY\n\nI\nCRITICISM AND AESTHETICS\n\nIT is not so long ago that the field of literary criticism\nwas divided into two opposing camps.  France being the only\ncountry in the world where criticism is a serious matter,\nthe battle waged most fiercely there, and doubtless greatly\nserved to bring about the present general interest and\nunderstanding of the theoretical questions at issue.  The\ncombatants were, of course, the impressionistic and scientific\nschools of criticism, and particularly enlightening were the\nmore or less recent controversies between MM. Anatole France\nand Jules Lemaitre as representatives of the first, and M.\nBrunetiere as the chief exponent of the second.  They have\nplanted their standards; and we see that they stand for\ntendencies in the critical activity of every nation.  The\nideal of the impressionist is to bring a new piece of\nliterature into being in some exquisitely happy characterization,--\nto create a lyric of criticism out of the unique pleasure of\nan aesthetic hour.  The stronghold of the scientist, on the\nother hand, is the doctrine of literary evolution, and his\naim is to show the history of literature as the history of\na process, and the work of literature as a product; to explain\nit from its preceding causes, and to detect thereby the general\nlaws of literary metamorphosis.\n\nSuch are the two great lines of modern criticism; their purposes\nand ideals stand diametrically opposed.  Of late, however, there\nhave not been wanting signs of a spirit of reconciliation, and\nof a tendency to concede the value, each in its own sphere, of\ndifferent but complementary activities.  Now and again the\nlion and the lamb have lain down together; one might almost say,\non reading a delightful paper of Mr. Lewis E. Gates on\nImpressionism and Appreciation,<1> that the lamb had assimilated\nthe lion.  For the heir of all literary studies, according to\nProfessor Gates, is the appreciative critic; and he it is who\nshall fulfill the true function of criticism.  He is to\nconsider the work of art in its historical setting and its\npsychological origin, \"as a characteristic moment in the\ndevelopment of human spirit, and as a delicately transparent\nillustration of aesthetic law.\"  But, \"in regarding the work\nof art under all these aspects, his aim is, primarily, not to\nexplain, and not to judge or dogmatize, but to enjoy; to\nrealize the manifold charms the work of art has gathered unto\nitself from all sources, and to interpret this charm imaginatively\nto the men of his own day and generation.\"\n\n<1> Atlantic Monthly, July, 1900.\n\nThus it would seem that if the report of his personal reactions\nto a work of literary art is the intention of the impressionist,\nand its explanation that of the scientist, the purpose of the\nappreciative critic is fairly named as the illuminating and\ninterpreting reproduction of that work, from material furnished\nby those other forms of critical activity.  Must, then, the\nmethod of appreciation, as combining and reconciling the two\nopposed views, forthwith claim our adherence?  To put to use\nall the devices of science and all the treasures of scholarship\nfor the single end of imaginative interpretation, for the sake\nof giving with the original melody all the harmonies of subtle\nassociation and profound meaning the ages have added, is, indeed,\na great undertaking.  But is it as valuable as it is vast?  M.\nBrunetiere has poured out his irony upon the critics who believe\nthat their own reactions upon literature are anything to us in\nthe presence of the works to which they have thrilled.  May it\nnot also be asked of the interpreter if its function is a\nnecessary one?  Do we require so much enlightenment, only to\nenjoy?  Appreciative criticism is a salt to give the dull\npalate its full savor; but what literary epicure, what real\nboo-lover, will acknowledge his own need of it?  If the whole\naim of appreciative criticism is to reproduce in other\narrangement the contents, expressed and implied, and the\nemotional value, original and derived, of a piece of literature,\nthe value of the end, at least to the intelligent reader, is\nout of all proportion to the laboriousness of the means.  Sing,\nreading's a joy!  For me, I read.\n\nBut a feeling of this kind is, after all, not a reason to be\nurged against the method.  The real weakness of appreciative\ncriticism lies elsewhere.  It teaches us to enjoy; but are we\nto enjoy everything?  Since its only aim is to reveal the\n\"intricate implications\" of a work of art; since it offers,\nand professes to offer, no literary judgments,--having indeed\nno explicit standard of literary value,--it must, at least\non its own theory, take its objects of appreciation ready-made,\nso to speak, by popular acclaim.  It possesses no criterion;\nit likes whate'er it looks on; and it can never tell us what\nwe are not to like.  That is unsatisfactory; and it is worse,--\nit is self-destructive.  For, not being able to reject,\nappreciation cannot, in logic, choose the objects of its\nattention.  But a method which cannot limit on its own principles\nthe field within which it is to work is condemned from the\nbeginning; it bears a fallacy at its core.  In order to make\ncriticism theoretically possible at all, the power to choose\nand reject, and so the pronouncing of judgment, must be an\nintegral part of it.\n\nTo such a task the critic may lend himself without arousing\nour antagonism.  We have no pressing need to know the latent\npossibilities of emotion for us in a book or a poem; but whether\nit is excellent or the reverse, whether \"we were right in being\nmoved by it,\" we are indeed willing to hear, for we desire to\njustify the faith that is in us.\n\nIf, then, the office of the judge be an essential part of the\ncritical function, the appreciative critic, whatever his other\nmerits,--and we shall examine them later,--fails at least of\nperfection.  His scheme is not the ideal one; and we may turn\nback, in our search for it, to a closer view of those which\nhis was to supersede.  Impressionism, however, is at once out\nof the running; it has always vigorously repudiated the notion\nof the standard, and we know, therefore, that no more than\nappreciation can it choose its material and stand alone.  But\nscientific criticism professes, at least, the true faith  M.\nBrunetiere holds that his own method is the only one by which\nan impersonal and stable judgment can be rendered.\n\nThe doctrine of the evolution of literary species is more or\nless explained in naming it.  Literary species, M. Brunetiere\nmaintains, do exist.  They develop and are transformed into\nothers in a way more or less analogous to the evolution of\nnatural types.  It remains to see on what basis an objective\njudgment can be given.  Although M. Brunetiere seems to make\nclassification the disposal of a work in the hierarchy of\nspecies, and judgment the disposal of it in relation to others\nof its own species, he has never sharply distinguished between\nthem; so that we shall not be wrong in taking his three\nprinciples of classification, scientific, moral, and aesthetic,\nas three principles by which he estimates the excellence of a\nwork.  His own examples, indeed, prove that to him a thing is\nalready judged in being classified.  The work of art is judged,\nthen, by its relation to the type.  Is this position tenable?\nI hold that, on the contrary, it precludes the possibility of\na critical judgment; for the judgment of anything always means\njudgment with reference to the end for which is exists.  A bad\nking is not the less a bad king for being a good father; and\nif his kingship is his essential function, he must be judged\nwith reference to that alone.  Now a piece of literature is,\nwith reference to its end, first of all a work of art.  It\nrepresents life and it enjoins morality, but it is only as a\nwork of art that it attains consideration; that, in the words\nof M. Lemaitre, it \"exists\" for us at all.  Its aim is beauty,\nand beauty is its excuse for being.\n\nThe type belongs to natural history.  The one principle at the\nbasis of scientific criticism is, as we have seen, the\nconception of literary history as a process, and of the work\nof art as a product.  The work of art is, then, a moment in a\nnecessary succession, governed by laws of change and adaptation\nlike those of natural evolution.  But how can the conception of\nvalues enter here?  Excellence can be attributed only to that\nwhich attains an ideal end; and a necessary succession has no\nend in itself.  The \"type,\" in this sense, is perfectly hollow.\nTo say that the modern chrysanthemum is better than that of\nour forbears because it is more chrysanthemum-like is true only\nif we make the latter form the arbitrary standard of the\nchrysanthemum.  If the horse of the Eocene age is inferior to\nthe horse of to-day, it is because, on M. Brunetiere's principle,\nhe is less horse-like.  But who shall decide which is more like\na horse, the original or the latter development?  No species\nwhich is constituted by its own history can be said to have\nan end in itself, and can, therefore, have an excellence to\nwhich it shall attain.  In short, good and bad can be applied\nto the moments in a necessary evolution only by imputing a\nfictitious superiority to the last term; and so one type cannot\nlogically be preferred to another.  As for the individual\nspecimens, since the conception of the type does not admit the\nprinciple of excellence, conformity thereto means nothing.\n\nThe work of art, on the other hand, as a thing of beauty, is\nan attainment of an ideal, not a product, and, from this point\nof view, is related not at all to the other terms of a succession,\nits causes and its effects, but only to the abstract principles\nof that beauty at which it aims.  Strangely enough, the whole\nprinciple of this contention has been admitted by M. Brunetiere\nin a casual sentence, of which he does not appear to recognize\nthe full significance.  \"We acknowledge, of course,\" he says,\n\"that there is in criticism a certain difference from natural\nhistory, since we cannot eliminate the subjective element if\nthe capacity works of art have of producing impressions on us\nmakes a part of their definition.  It is not in order to be\neaten that the tree produces its fruit.\"  But this is giving\naway his whole position!  As little as the conformity of the\nfruit to its species has to do with our pleasure in eating it,\njust so little has the conformity of a literary work to its\ngenre to do with the quality by virtue of which it is defined\nas art.\n\nThe Greek temple is a product of Greek religion applied to\ngeographical conditions.  To comprehend it as a type, we must\nknow that it was an adaptation of the open hilltop to the\npurpose of the worship of images of the gods.  But the most\npenetrating study of the slow moulding of this type will never\nreveal how and why just those proportions were chosen which\nmake the joy and the despair of all beholders.  Early Italian\nart was purely ecclesiastical in its origin.  The exigencies\nof adaptation to altars, convent walls, or cathedral domes\nexplain the choice of subjects, the composition, even perhaps\nthe color schemes (as of frescoes, for instance); and yet all\nthat makes a Giotto greater than a Pictor Ignotus is quite\nunaccounted for by these considerations.\n\nThe quality of beauty is not evolved.  All that comes under\nthe category of material and practical purpose, of idea or of\nmoral attitude, belongs to the succession, the evolution, the\ntype  But the defining characters of the work of art are\nindependent of time.  The temple, the fresco, and the symphony,\nin the moment they become objects of the critical judgment,\nbecome also qualities of beauty and transparent examples of\nits laws.\n\nIf the true critical judgment, then, belongs to an order of\nideas of which natural science can take no cognizance, the\nself-styled scientific criticism must show the strange paradox\nof ignoring the very qualities by virtue of which a given work\nhas any value, or can come at all to be the object of aesthetic\njudgment.  In two words, the world of beauty and the world of\nnatural processes are incommensurable, and scientific criticism\nof literary art is a logical impossibility.\n\nBut the citadel of scientific criticism has yet one more\nstronghold.  Granted that beauty, as an abstract quality, is\ntimeless; granted that, in the judgment of a piece of literary\nart, the standard of value is the canon of beauty, not the\ntype; yet the old order changeth.  Primitive and civilized man,\nthe Hottentot and the Laplander, the Oriental and the Slav,\nhave desired differing beauties.  May it, then, still be said\nthat although a given embodiment of beauty is to be judged\nwith reference to the idea of beauty alone, yet the concrete\nideal of beauty must wear the manacles of space and time,--\nthat the metamorphoses of taste preclude the notion of an\nobjective beauty?  And if this is true, are we not thrown\nback again on questions of genesis and development, and a\nstudy of the evolution, not of particular types of art, but\nof general aesthetic feeling; and, in consequence, upon a\nform of criticism which is scientific in the sense of being\nbased on succession, and not on absolute value?\n\nIt is indeed true that the very possibility of a criticism\nwhich shall judge of aesthetic excellence must stand or fall\nwith this other question of a beauty in itself, as an objective\nfoundation for criticism.  If there is an absolute beauty, it\nmust be possible to work out a system of principles which shall\nembody its laws,--an aesthetic, in other words; and on the basis\nof that aesthetic to deliver a well-founded critical judgment.\nIs there, then, a beauty in itself?  And if so, in what does\nit consist?\n\nWe can approach such an aesthetic canon in two ways: from the\nstandpoint of philosophy, which develops the idea of beauty as\na factor in the system of our absolute values, side by side\nwith the ideas of truth and of morality, or from the standpoint\nof empirical science.  For our present purpose, we may confine\nourselves to the empirical facts of psychology and physiology.\n\nWhen I feel the rhythm of poetry, or of perfect prose, which\nis, of course, in its own way, no less rhythmical, every\nsensation of sound sends through me a diffusive wave of nervous\nenergy.  I am the rhythm because I imitate it in myself.  I\nmarch to noble music in all my veins, even though I may be\nsitting decorously by my own hearthstone; and when I sweep with\nmy eyes the outlines of a great picture, the curve of a Greek\nvase, the arches of a cathedral, every line is lived over again\nin my own frame.  And when rhythm and melody and forms and\ncolors give me pleasure, it is because the imitating impulses\nand movements that have arisen in me are such as suit, help,\nheighten my physical organization in general and in particular.\nIt may seem somewhat trivial to say that a curved line is\npleasing because the eye is so hung as to move best in it;\nbut we may take it as one instance of the numberless conditions\nfor healthy action which a beautiful form fulfills.  A well-\ncomposed picture calls up in the spectator just such a balanced\nrelation of impulses of attention and incipient movements as\nsuits an organism which is also balanced--bilateral--in its\nown impulses to movement, and at the same time stable; and it\nis the correspondence of the suggested impulses with the\nnatural movement that makes the composition good.  Besides the\npleasure from the tone relations,--which doubtless can be\neventually reduced to something of the same kind,--it is the\nbalance of nervous and muscular tensions and relaxations, of\nyearnings and satisfactions, which are the subjective side of\nthe beauty of a strain of music.  The basis, in short, of any\naesthetic experience--poetry, music, painting, and the rest--\nis beautiful through its harmony with the conditions offered\nby our senses, primarily of sight and hearing, and through\nthe harmony of the suggestions and impulses it arouses with\nthe whole organism.\n\nBut the sensuous beauty of art does not exhaust the aesthetic\nexperience.  What of the special emotions--the gayety or\ntriumph, the sadness or peace or agitation--that hang about\nthe work of art, and make, for many, the greater part of their\ndelight in it?  Those among these special emotions which belong\nto the subject-matter of a work--like our horror at the picture\nof an execution--need not here be discussed.  To understand the\nrest we may venture for a moment into the realm of pure\npsychology.  We are told by psychology that emotion is dependent\non the organic excitations of any given idea.  Thus fear at the\nsight of a bear is only the reverberation in consciousness of\nall nervous and vascular changes set up instinctively as a\npreparation for flight.  Think away our bodily feelings, and\nwe think away fear, too.  And set up the bodily changes and the\nfeeling of them, and we have the emotion that belongs to them\neven without the idea, as we may see in the unmotived panics\nthat sometimes accompany certain heart disturbances.  The same\nthing, on another level, is a familiar experience.  A glass of\nwine makes merriment, simply by bringing about those organic\nstates which are felt emotionally as cheerfulness.  Now the\napplication of all this to aesthetics is clear.  All these\ntensions, relaxations,--bodily \"imitations\" of the form,--have\neach the emotional tone which belongs to it.  And so if the\nmusic of a Strauss waltz makes us gay, and Handel's Largo\nserious, it is not because we are reminded of the ballroom or\nof the cathedral, but because the physical response to the\nstimulus of the music is itself the basis of the emotion.\nWhat makes the sense of peace in the atmosphere of the Low\nCountries?  Only the tendency, on following those level lines\nof landscape, to assume ourselves the horizontal, and the\nrestfulness which belongs to that posture.  If the crimson of\na picture by Bocklin, or the golden glow of a Giorgione, or\nthe fantastic gleam of a Rembrandt speaks to me like a human\nvoice, it is not because it expresses to me an idea, but\nbecause it impresses that sensibility which is deeper than\nideas,--the region of the emotional response to color and to\nlight.  What is the beauty of the \"Ulalume,\" or \"Kubla Khan,\"\nor \"Ueber allen Gipfeln\"?  It is the way in which the form\nin its exquisite fitness to our senses, and the emotion\nbelonging to that particular form as organic reverberation\ntherefrom, in its exquisite fitness to thought, create in us\na delight quite unaccounted for by the ideas which they\nexpress.  This is the essence of beauty,--the possession of\na quality which excites the human organism to functioning\nharmonious with its own nature.\n\nWe can see in this definition the possibility of an aesthetic\nwhich shall have objective validity because founded in the\neternal properties of human nature, while it yet allows us to\nunderstand that in the limits within which, by education and\nenvironment, the empirical man changes, his norms of beauty\nmust vary, too.  Ideas can change in interest and in value,\nbut these energies lie much deeper than the idea, in the\noriginal constitution of mankind.  They belong to the\ninstinctive, involuntary part of our nature.  They are\nchangeless, just as the \"eternal man\" is changeless; and as\nthe basis of aesthetic feeling they can be gathered into a\nsystem of laws which shall be subject to no essential\nmetamorphosis.  So long as we laugh when we are joyful, and\nweep when we are sick and sorry; so long as we flush with\nanger, or grow pale with fear, so long shall we thrill to a\ngolden sunset, the cadence of an air, or the gloomy spaces\nof a cathedral.\n\nThe study of these forms of harmonious functioning of the\nhuman organism has its roots, of course, in the science of\npsychology, but comes, nevertheless, to a different flower,\nbecause of the grafting on of the element of aesthetic value.\nIt is the study of the disinterested human pleasures, and,\nalthough as yet scarcely well begun, capable of a most\ndetailed and definitive treatment.\n\nThis is not the character of those studies so casually alluded\nto by the author of \"Impressionism and Appreciation,\" when he\nenjoins on the appreciative critic not to neglect the literature\nof aesthetics:  \"The characteristics of his [the artist's]\ntemperament have been noted with the nicest loyalty; and\nparticularly the play of his special faculty, the imagination,\nas this faculty through the use of sensations and images and\nmoods and ideas creates a work of art, has been followed out\nwith the utmost delicacy of observation.\"  But these are not\nproperly studies in aesthetics at all.  To find out what is\nbeautiful, and the reason for its being beautiful, is the\naesthetic task; to analyze the workings of the poet's mind,\nas his conception grows and ramifies and brightens, is no part\nof it, because such a study takes no account of the aesthetic\nvalue of the process, but only of the process itself.  The\nsame fallacy lurks here, indeed, as in the confusion of the\nscientific critic between literary evolution and poetic\nachievement, and the test of the fallacy is this single fact:\nthe psychological process in the development of a dramatic\nidea, for instance, is, and quite properly should be, from\nthe point of view of such analysis, exactly the same for a\nShakespeare and for the Hoyt of our American farces.\n\nThe cause of the production of a work of art may indeed by\nfound by tracing back the stream of thought; but the cause\nof its beauty is the desire and the sense of beauty in the\nhuman heart.  If a given combination of lines and colors is\nbeautiful, then the anticipation of the combination as\nbeautiful is what has brought about its incarnation.  The\nartist's attitude toward his vision of beauty, and the art\nlover's toward that vision realized, are the same.  The only\nlegitimate aesthetic analysis is, then, that of the relation\nbetween the aesthetic object and the lover of beauty, and all\nthe studies in the psychology of invention--be it literary,\nscientific, or practical invention--have no right to the\nother name.\n\nAesthetics, then, is the science of beauty.  It will be\ndeveloped as a system of laws expressing the relation between\nthe object and aesthetic pleasure in it; or as a system of\nconditions to which the object, in order to be beautiful,\nmust conform.  It is hard to say where the task of the\naesthetician ends, and that of the critic begins; and for\nthe present, at least, they must often be commingled.  But\nthey are defined by their purposes:  the end and aim of one\nis a system of principles; of the other, the disposal of a\ngiven work with reference to those principles; and when the\nscience of aesthetics shall have taken shape, criticism will\nconfine itself to the analysis of the work into its aesthetic\nelements, to the explanation (by means of the laws already\nformulated) of its especial power in the realm of beauty,\nand to the judgment of its comparative aesthetic value.\n\nThe other forms of critical activity will then find their\ntrue place as preliminaries or supplements to the essential\nfunction of criticism.  The study of historical conditions,\nof authors' personal relations, of the literary \"moment,\"\nwill be means to show the work of art \"as in itself it really\nis.\"  Shall we then say that the method of appreciation, being\nan unusually exhaustive presentment of the object as in itself\nit really is, is therefore an indispensable preparation for\nthe critical judgment?  The modern appreciator, after the\nmodel limned by Professor Gates, was to strive to get, as it\nwere, the aerial perspective of a masterpiece,--to present it\nas it looks across the blue depths of the years.  This is\nwithout doubt a fascinating study; but it may be questioned\nif it does not darken the more important issue.  For it is\nnot the object as in itself it really is that we at last\nbehold, but the object disguised in new and strange trappings.\nSuch appreciation is to aesthetic criticism as the sentimental\nto the naive poet in Schiller's famous antithesis.  The virtue\nof the sentimental genius is to complete by the elements which\nit derives from itself an otherwise defective object.  So the\naesthetic critic takes his natural need of beauty from the\nobject; the appreciative critic seeks a further beauty outside\nof the object, in his own reflections and fancies about it.\nBut if we care greatly for the associations of literature, we\nAre in danger of disregarding its quality.  A vast deal of\npretty sentiment may hang about and all but transmute the most\nprosaic object.  A sedan chair, an old screen, a sundial,--to\nquote only Austin Dobson,--need not be lovely in themselves to\nserve as pegs to hang a poem on; and all the atmosphere of the\neighteenth century may be wafted from a jar of potpourri.  Read\na lyric instead of a rose jar, and the rule holds as well.  The\nman of feeling cannot but find all Ranelagh and Vauxhall in\nsome icily regular effusion of the eighteenth century, and will\ntake a deeper retrospective thrill from an old playbill than\nfrom the play itself.  And since this is so,--since the interest\nin the overtones, the added value given by time, the value for\nus, is not necessarily related to the value as literature of the\nfundamental note,--to make the study of the overtones an\nessential part of criticism is to be guilty of the Pathetic\nFallacy; that is, the falsification of the object by the\nintrusion of ourselves,--the typical sentimental crime.\n\nIt seems to me, indeed, that instead of courting a sense for\nthe aromatic in literature, the critic should rather guard\nhimself against its insidious approaches.  Disporting himself\nin such pleasures of the fancy, he finds it easy to believe,\nand to make us believe, that a piece of literature gains in\nintrinsic value from its power to stimulate his historical\nsense.  The modern appreciative critic, in short, is too likely\nto be the dupe of his \"sophisticated reverie,\"--like an epicure\nwho should not taste the meat for the sauces.  A master work,\nonce beautiful according to the great and general laws, never\nbecomes, properly speaking, either more or less so.  If a piece\nof art can take us with its own beauty, there is no point in\nsuperimposing upon it shades of sentiment; if it cannot so\ncharm, all the rose-colored lights of this kind of appreciative\ncriticism are unavailing.\n\nThe \"literary\" treatment of art, as the \"emotional\" treatment of literature,--for that is what \"appreciation\" and \"interpretation\"\nreally are,--can completely justify itself only as the crowning\ntouch of a detailed aesthetic analysis of those \"order of\nimpression distinct in kind\" which are the primary elements in\nour pleasure in the beautiful.  It is the absence--and not only\nthe absence, but the ignoring of the possibility--of such\nanalysis which tempts one to rebel against such phrases as those\nof Professor Gates:  \"the splendid and victorious womanhood of\nTitian's Madonnas,\" \"the gentle and terrestrial grace of\nmotherhood in those of Andrea del Sarto,\" the \"sweetly ordered\ncomeliness of Van Dyck's.\"  One is moved to ask if the only\ndifference between a Madonna of Titian and one of Andrea is a\ndifference of temper, and if the important matter for the\ncritic of art is the moral conception rather than the visible\nbeauty.\n\nI cannot think of anything for which I would exchange the\nenchanting volumes of Walter Pater, and yet even he is not the\nideal aesthetic critic whose duties he made clear.  What he has\ndone is to give us the most exquisite and delicate of\ninterpretations.  He has not failed to \"disengage\" the subtle\nand peculiar pleasure that each picture, each poem or\npersonality, has in store for us; but of analysis and explanation\nof this pleasure--of which he speaks in the Introduction to \"The\nRenaissance\"--there is no more.  In the first lines of his paper\non Botticelli, the author asks, \"What is the peculiar sensation\nwhich his work has the property of exciting in us?\"  And to\nwhat does he finally come?  \"The peculiar character of Botticelli\nis the result of a blending in him of a sympathy for humanity\nin its uncertain conditions...with his consciousness of the\nshadow upon it of the great things from which it sinks.\"  But\nthis is not aesthetic analysis!  It is not even the record of\na \"peculiar sensation,\" but a complex intellectual interpretation.\nWhere is the pleasure in the irrepressible outline, fascinating\nin its falseness,--in the strange color, like the taste of\nolives, of the Spring and the Pallas?  So, also, his great\npassage on the Mona Lisa, his \"Winckelmann,\" even his \"Giorgione\"\nitself, are merely wonderful delineations of the mood of\nresponse to the creations of the art in question.  Such\ninterpretation as we have from Pater is a priceless treasure,\nbut it is none the less the final cornice, and not the corner\nstone of aesthetic criticism.\n\nThe tendency to interpretation without any basis in aesthetic\nexplanation is especially seen in the subject of our original\ndiscussion,--literature.  It is indeed remarkable how scanty\nis the space given in contemporary criticism to the study of\nan author's means to those results which we ourselves\nexperience.  Does no one really care how it is done?  Or are\nthey all in the secret, and interested only in the temperament\nexpressed or the aspect of life envisaged in a given work?\nOne would have thought that as the painter turned critic in\nFromentin at least to a certain extent sought out and dealt\nwith the hidden workings of his art, so the romancer or the\npoet-critic might also have told off for us \"the very pulse\nof the machine.\"  The last word has not been said on the\nmysteries of the writer's art.  We know, it may be, how the\nlinks of Shakespeare's magic chain of words are forged, but\nthe same cannot be said of any other poet.  We have studied\nDante's philosophy and his ideal of love; but have we found\nout the secrets of his \"inventive handling of rhythmical\nlanguage\"?  If Flaubert is univerally acknowledged to have\ncreated a masterpiece in \"Madame Bovary,\" should there not\nbe an interest for criticism in following out, chapter by\nchapter, paragraph by paragraph, word by word, the meaning\nof what it is to be a masterpiece?  But such seems not to\nbe the case.  Taine reconstructs the English temperament out\nof Fielding and Dickens; Matthew Arnold, although he deals\nmore than others in first principles, never carries his\nanalysis beyond the widest generalizations, like the\nrequirement for \"profound truth\" and \"high seriousness,\"\nfor great poetry.  And as we run the gamut of contemporary\ncriticism, we find ever preoccupation with the personality\nof the writers and the ideas of their books.  I recall only\none example--the critical essays of Henry James--where the\ncraftsman has dropped some hints on the ideals of the\nliterary art; and even that, if I maybe allowed the bull,\nin his novels rather than in his essays, for in critical\ntheory he is the most ardent of impressionists.  Whatever\nthe cause, we cannot but allow the dearth of knowledge of,\nand interest in, the peculiar subject-matter of criticism,--\nthe elements of beauty in a work of literature.\n\nBut although the present body of criticism consists rather\nof preliminaries and supplements to what should be its real\naccomplishment, these should not therefore receive the less\nregard.  The impressionist has set himself a definite task,\nand he has succeeded.  If not the true critic, he is an\nartist in his own right, and he has something to say to the\nworld.  The scientific critic has taken all knowledge for his\nprovince; and although we hold that it has rushed in upon and\nswamped his distinctly critical function, so long as we may\ncall him by his other name of natural historian of literature,\nwe can only acknowledge his great achievements.  For the\nappreciative critic we have less sympathy as yet, but the\n\"development of the luxurious intricacy and the manifold\nimplications of our enjoyment\" may fully crown the edifice of\naesthetic explanation and appraisal of the art of every age.\nBut all these, we feel, do not fulfill the essential function;\nthe Idea of Criticism is not here.  What the idea of criticism\nis we have tried to work out:  a judgment of a work of art on\nthe basis of the laws of beauty.  That such laws there are,\nthat they exist directly in the relation between the material\nform and the suggested physical reactions, and that they are\npractically changeless, even as the human instincts are\nchangeless, we have sought to show.  And if there can be a\nscience of the beautiful, then an objective judgment on the\nbasis of the laws of the beautiful can be rendered.  The true\nend of criticism, therefore, is to tell us whence and why the\ncharm of a work of art:  to disengage, to explain, to measure,\nand to certify it.  And this explanation of charm, and this\nstamping it with the seal of approval, is possible by the help,\nand only by the help, of the science of aesthetics,--a science\nnow only in its beginning, but greatly to be desired in its\nfull development.\n\nHow greatly to be desired we realize in divining that the\npresent dearth of constructive and destructive criticism, of\nall, indeed, except interpretations and reports, is responsible\nfor the modern mountains of machine-made literature.  Will not\nthe aesthetic critic be for us a new Hercules, to clear away\nthe ever growing heap of formless things in book covers?  If\nhe will teach us only what great art means in literature; if\nhe will give us never so little discussion of the first\nprinciples of beauty, and point the moral with some \"selling\nbooks,\" he will at least have turned the flood.  There are\nstories nowadays, but few novels, and plenty of spectacles,\nbut no plays; and how should we know the difference, never\nhaving heard what a novel ought to be?  But let the aesthetic\ncritic give us a firm foundation for criticism, a real\nunderstanding of the conditions of literary art; let him teach\nus to know a novel or a play when we see it, and we shall not\nalways mingle the wheat and the chaff.\n\n\nII\nTHE NATURE OF BEAUTY\n\n\nII\nTHE NATURE OF BEAUTY\n\nEVERY introduction to the problems of aesthetics begins by\nacknowledging the existence and claims of two methods of\nattack,--the general, philosophical, deductive, which starts\nfrom a complete metaphysics and installs beauty in its place\namong the other great concepts; and the empirical, or inductive,\nwhich seeks to disengage a general principle of beauty from\nthe objects of aesthetic experience and the facts of aesthetic\nenjoyment: Fechner's \"aesthetics from above and from below.\"\n\nThe first was the method of aesthetics par excellence.  It was\nindeed only through the desire of an eighteenth-century\nphilosopher, Baumgarten, to round out his \"architectonic\" of\nmetaphysics that the science received its name, as designating\nthe theory of knowledge in the form of feeling, parallel to\nthat of \"clear,\" logical thought.  Kant, Schelling, and Hegel,\nagain, made use of the concept of the Beautiful as a kind of\nkeystone or cornice for their respective philosophical edifices.\nAesthetics, then, came into being as the philosophy of the\nBeautiful, and it may be asked why this philosophical aesthetics\ndoes not suffice--why beauty should need for its understanding\nalso an aesthetics \"von unten.\"\n\nThe answer is not that no system of philosophy is universally\naccepted, but that the general aesthetic theories have not, as\nyet at least, succeeded in answering the plain questions of\n\"the plain man\" in regard to concrete beauty.  Kant, indeed,\nfrankly denied that the explanation of concrete beauty, or\n\"Doctrine of Taste,\" as he called it, was possible, while the\nvarious definers of beauty as \"the union of the Real and the\nIdeal\" \"the expression of the Ideal to Sense,\" have done no\nmore than he.  No one of these aesthetic systems, in spite of\nvolumes of so-called application of their principles to works\nof art, has been able to furnish a criterion of beauty.  The\ncriticism of the generations is summed up in the mild remark\nof Fechner, in his \"Vorschule der Aesthetik,\" to the effect\nthat the philosophical path leaves one in conceptions that,\nby reason of their generality, do not well fit the particular\ncases.  And so it was that empirical aesthetics arose, which\ndoes not seek to answer those plain questions as to the\nenjoyment of concrete beauty down to its simplest forms, to\nwhich philosophical aesthetics had been inadequate.\n\nBut it is clear that neither has empirical aesthetics said\nthe last word concerning beauty.  Criticism is still in a\nchaotic state that would be impossible if aesthetic theory\nwere firmly grounded.  This situation appears to me to be\ndue to the inherent inadequacy and inconclusiveness of\nempirical aesthetics when it stands alone; the grounds of\nthis inadequacy I shall seek to establish in the following.\n\nGranting that the aim of every aesthetics is to determine\nthe Nature of Beauty, and to explain our feelings about it,\nwe may say that the empirical treatments propose to do this\neither by describing the aesthetic object and extracting the\nessential elements of Beauty, or by describing the aesthetic\nexperience and extracting the essential elements of aesthetic\nfeeling, thereby indicating the elements of Beauty as those\nwhich effect this feeling.\n\nNow the bare description and analysis of beautiful objects\ncannot, logically, yield any result; for the selection of\ncases would have to be arbitrary, and would be at the mercy\nof any objection.  To any one who should say, But this is\nnot beautiful, and should not be included in your inventory,\nanswer could be made only by showing that it had such and\nsuch qualities, the very, by hypothesis, unknown qualities\nthat were to be sought.  Moreover, the field of beauty\ncontains so many and so heterogeneous objects , that the\nretreat to their only common ground, aesthetic feeling,\nappears inevitable.  A statue and a symphony can be reduced\nto a common denominator most easily if the states of mind\nwhich they induce are compared.  Thus the analysis of objects\npasses naturally over to the analysis of mental states--the\npoint of view of psychology.\n\nThere is, however, a method subsidiary to the preceding, which\nseeks the elements of Beauty in a study of the genesis and the\ndevelopment of art forms.  But this leaves the essential\nphenomenon absolutely untouched.  The general types of aesthetic\nexpression may indeed have been shaped by social forces,--\nreligious, commercial, domestic,--but as social products, not\nas aesthetic phenomena.  Such studies reveal to us, as it were,\nthe excuse for the fact of music, poetry, painting--but they\ntell us nothing of the reason why beautiful rather than ugly\nforms were chosen, as who should show that the bird sings to\nattract its mate, ignoring the relation and sequence of the\nnotes.  The decorative art of most savage tribes, for instance,\nis nearly all of totemic origin, and the decayed and degraded\nforms of snake, bird, bear, fish, may be traced in the most\napparently empty geometric patterns;--but what does this\ndiscovery tell us of the essentially decorative quality of such\npatterns or of the nature of beauty of form?  The study of the\nGothic cathedral reveals the source of its general plan and of\nits whole scheme of ornament in detailed religious symbolism.\nYet a complete knowledge of the character of the religious\nfeeling which impelled to this monumental expression, and of\nthe genesis of every element of structure, fails to account\nfor the essential beauty of rhythm and proportion in the\nfinished work.  These researches, in short, explain the\nreason for the existence, but not for the quality, of works\nof art.\n\nThus it is in psychology that empirical aesthetics finds its\nlast resort.  And indeed, our plain man might say, the\naesthetic experience itself is inescapable and undeniable.\nYou know that the sight or the hearing of this thing gives\nyou a thrill of pleasure.  You may not be able to defend the\nbeauty of the object, but the fact of the experience you have.\nThe psychologist, seeking to analyze the vivid and unmistakable\nAesthetic experience, would therefore proceed somewhat as\nfollows.  He would select the salient characteristics of his\nmental state in presence of a given work of art.  He would then\nstudy, by experiment and introspection, how the particular\nsense-stimulations of the work of art in question could become\nthe psychological conditions of these salient characteristics.\nThus, supposing the aesthetic experience to have been described\nas \"the conscious happiness in which one is absorbed, and, as\nit were, immersed in the sense-object,\"<1> the further special\naim, in connection with a picture, for instance, would be to\nshow how the sensations and associated ideas from color, line,\ncomposition, and all the other elements of a picture may, on\ngeneral psychological principles, bring about this state of\nhappy absorption.  Such elements as can be shown to have a\ndirect relation to the aesthetic experience are then counted\nas elements of the beauty of the aesthetic object, and such\nas are invariable in all art forms would belong to the general\nformula or concept of Beauty.\n\n<1> M.W. Calkins: An Introduction to Psychology, 1902, p. 278.\n\nThis, it seems to me, is as favorable a way as possible of\nstating the possibilities of an independent aesthetic psychology.\n\nYet this method, as it works out, does not exhaust the problem\nthe solution of which was affirmed to be the aim of every\naesthetics.  The aesthetic experience is very complex, and the\ntheoretical consequences of emphasizing this or that element\nvery great.  Thus, if it were held that the characteristics of\nthe aesthetic experience could be given by the complete analysis\nof a single well-marked case,--say, our impressions before a\nDoric column, or the Cathedral of Chartres, or the Giorgione\nVenus,--it could be objected that for such a psychological\nexperience the essential elements are hard to isolate.  The\ncathedral is stone rather than staff; it is three hundred\nrather than fifty feet high.  Our reaction upon these facts\nmay or may not be essentials to the aesthetic moment, and we\ncan know whether they are essentials only by comparison and\nexclusion.  It might be said, therefore, that the analysis of\na single, though typical, aesthetic experience is insufficient;\na wide induction is necessary.  Based on the experience of many\npeople, in face of the same object?  But to many there would\nbe no aesthetic experience.  On that of one person, over an\nextensive field of objects?  How, then, determine the limits\nof this field?  Half of the dispute of modern aesthetics is\nover the right to include in the material for this induction\nvarious kinds of enjoyment which are vivid, not directly\nutilitarian, but traditionally excluded from the field.  Guyan,\nfor instance, in a charming passage of his \"Problemes de\nl'Esthetique Contemporaine,\" argues for the aesthetic quality\nof the moment when, exhausted by a long mountain tramp, he\nquaffed, among the slopes of the Pyrenees, a bowl of foaming\nmilk.  The same dispute appears, in more complicated form, in\nthe conflicting dicta of the critics.\n\nIf we do not know what part of our feeling is aesthetic feeling,\nhow can wee go farther?  If the introspecting subject cannot\nsay, This is aesthetic feeling, it is logically impossible to\nmake his state of mind the basis for further advance.  It is\nclear that the great question is of what one has a right to\ninclude in the aesthetic experience.  But that one should have\nsuch a \"right\" implies that there is an imperative element in\nthe situation, an absolute standard somewhere.\n\nIt seems to me that the secret of the difficulty lies in the\nnature of the situation, with which an empirical treatment\nmust necessarily fail to deal. What we have called \"the\naesthetic experience\" is really a positive toning of the\ngeneral aesthetic attitude.  This positive toning corresponds\nto aesthetic excellence in the object.  But wherever the\nconcept of excellence enters, there is always the implication\nof a standard, value, judgment.  But where there is a standard\nthere is always an implicit a priori,--a philosophical foundation.\n\nIf, then, a philosophical method is the last resort and the\nfirst condition of a true aesthetics, what is the secret of its\nfailure?  For that it has failed seems to be still the consensus\nof opinion.  Simply, I believe and maintain, the unreasonable\nand illogical demand which, for instance, Fechner makes in the\nwords I have quoted, for just this immediate application of a\nphilosophical definition to concrete cases.  Who but an Hegelian\nphilosopher, cries Professor James, ever pretended that reason\nin action was per se a sufficient explanation of the political\nchanges in Europe?  Who but an Hegelian philosopher, he might\nadd, ever pretended that \"the expression of the Idea to Sense\"\nwas a sufficient explanation of the Sistine Madonna?  But I\nthink the Hegelian--or other--philosopher might answer that he\nhad no need so to pretend.  Such a philosophical definition,\nas I hope to show, cannot possibly apply to particular cases,\nand should not be expected to do so.\n\nBeauty is an excellence, a standard, a value.  But value is\nin its nature teleological; is of the nature of purpose.\nAnything ha value because it fulfills an end, because it is\ngood for something in the world.  A thing is not beautiful\nbecause it has value,--other things have that,--it has value\nbecause it is beautiful, because it fulfills the end of Beauty.\nThus the metaphysical definition of Beauty must set forth what\nthis end of Beauty is,--what it serves in the universe.\n\nBut to determine what anything does, or fulfills, or exemplifies,\nis not the same as to determine what it is in itself.  The most\nthat can be said is that the end, or function, shapes the means\nor constitution.  The end is a logical imperative.  Beauty does,\nand must do, such things.  To ask how, is at once to indicate\nan ultimate departure from the philosophical point of view; for\nthe means to an end are different, and to be empirically\ndetermined.\n\nNow the constitution of Beauty can be only the means to the\nend of Beauty,--that combination of qualities in the object\nwhich will bring about the end fixed by philosophical definition.\nThe end is general; the means may be different kinds.  Evidently,\nthen, the philosophical definition cannot be applied directly to\nthe object until the possibilities, conditions, and limitations\nof that object's fitness for the purpose assigned are known.  We\ncannot ask, Does the Sistine Madonna express the Idea of Sense?\nuntil we know all possibilities and conditions of the visual for\nattaining that expression.  But, indeed, the consideration of\ncauses and effects suggests at once that natural science must\nguide further investigation.  Philosophy must lay down what\nBeauty has to do, but since it is in our experience of Beauty\nthat its end is accomplished, since the analysis of such\nexperience and the study of its contributing elements is a work\nof the natural science of such experience--it would follow that psychology must deal with the various means through which this\nend is to be reached.\n\nThus we see that Fechner's reproach is unjustified.  Those concepts\nwhich are too general to apply to particular cases are not meant\nto do so.  If a general concept expresses, as it should, the place\nof Beauty in the hierarchy of metaphysical values, it is for the\npsychologist of aesthetics to develop the means by which that end\ncan be reached in the various realms in which works of art are\nfound.\n\nNor can we agree with Santayana's dictum<1> that philosophical\naesthetics confuses the import of an experience with the\nexplanation of its cause.  It need not.  The aesthetic experience\nis indeed caused by the beautiful object, but the beautiful object\nitself is caused by the possibility of the aesthetic experience,--\nbeauty as an end under the conditions of human perception.  Thus\nthe Nature of Beauty is related to its import, or meaning, or\nend, as means to that end; and therefore the import of an\nexperience may well point out to us the constitution of the cause\nof that experience.  A work of art, a piece of nature, is judged\nby its degree of attainment to that end; the explanation of its\nbeauty--of its degree of attainment, that is--is found in the\neffect of its elements, according to psychological laws, on the\naesthetic subject.\n\n<1> The Sense of Beauty, 1898. Intro.\n\nSuch a psychological study of the means by which the end of\nBeauty is attained is the only method by which we can come to\nan explanation of the wealth of concrete beauty.  The concept\nof explanation, indeed, is valid only within the realm of\ncauses and effects.  The aim of aesthetics being conceded, as\nabove, to be the determination of the Nature of Beauty and the\nexplanation of our feelings about it, it is evident at this\npoint that the Nature of Beauty must be determined by philosophy;\nbut the general definition having been fixed, the meaning of the\nwork of art having been made clear, the only possible explanation\nof our feelings about it--the aesthetic experience, in other\nwords--must be gained from psychology.  This method is not open\nto the logical objections against the preceding.  No longer need\nwe ask what has a right to be included in the aesthetic experience.\nThat has been fixed by the definition of Beauty.  But how the\nbeautiful object brings about the aesthetic experience, the\nboundaries of which are already known, is clearly matter for\npsychology.\n\nThe first step must then be to win the philosophical definition\nof Beauty.  It was Kant, says Hegel, who spoke the first rational\nword concerning Beauty.  The study of his successors will reveal,\nI believe, that the aesthetic of the great system of idealism\nforms, on the whole, one identical doctrine.  It is worth while\nto dwell somewhat on this point, because the traditional view of\nthe relation of the aesthetic of Kant, Schiller, Schelling, and\nHegel is otherwise.  Kant's starting-point was the discovery of\nthe normative, \"over-individual\" nature of Beauty, which we have\njust found to be the secret of the contradictions of empirical\naesthetics.  Yet he came to it at the bidding of quite other\nmotives.\n\nKant's aesthetics was meant to serve as the keystone of the\narch between sense and reason.  The discovery of all that is\nimplicit in the experience of the senses had led him to deny\nthe possibility of knowledge beyond the matter of this experience.\nYet the reason has an inevitable tendency to press beyond this\nlimit, to seek all-embracing, absolute unities,--to conceive\nan unconditioned totality.  Thus the reason presents us with\nthe ideas--beyond all possibility of knowledge--of the Soul,\nthe World, and God.  In the words of Kant, the Ideas of Reason\nlead the understanding to the consideration of Nature according\nto a principle of completeness, although it can never attain\nto this.  Can there be a bridge across this abyss between sense\nand reason? then asks Kant; which bridge he believes himself\nto have found in the aesthetic faculty.  For on inquiring what\nis involved in the judgment, \"This is beautiful,\" he discovers\nthat such a judgment is \"universal\" and \"necessary,\" inasmuch\nas it implies that every normal spectator must acknowledge its\nvalidity, that it is \"disinterested\" because it rests on the\n\"appearance of the object without demanding its actual\nexistence,\" and that it is \"immediate\" or \"free,\" as it\nacknowledges the object as beautiful without definite purpose,\nas of adaptation to use.  But how does this judgment constitute\nthe desired bond between sense and reason?  Simply in that,\nthough applied to an object of the senses, it has yet all the\nmarks of the Idea of Reason,--it is universal, necessary, free,\nunconditioned; it is judged as if it were perfect, and so\nfulfills those demands of reason which elsewhere in the world\nof sense are unsatisfied.\n\nThe two important factors, then, of Kant's aesthetics are its\nreconciliation of sense and reason in beauty, and its reference\nof the \"purposiveness\" of beauty to the cognitive faculty.\n\nSchiller has been given the credit of transcending Kant's\n\"subjective\" aesthetic through his emphasis on the significance\nof the beautiful object.  It is not bound by a conception to\nwhich it must attain, so that it is perceived as if it were\nfree.  Nor do we desire the reality of it to use for ourselves\nor for others; so that we are free in relation to it.  It, the\nobject, is thus \"the vindication of freedom in the world of\nphenomena,\" that world which is otherwise a binding necessity.\nBut it would seem that this had been already taught by Kant\nhimself, and that Schiller has but enlivened the subject by\nhis two illuminating phrases, \"aesthetic semblance\" and the\n\"play-impulse,\" to denote the real object of the aesthetic\ndesire and the true nature of that desire; form instead of\nmaterial existence, and a free attitude instead of serious\npurpose.  Still, his insistence on Beauty as the realization\nof freedom may be said to have paved the way for Schelling's\ntheory, in which the aesthetic reaches its maximum of\nimportance.\n\nThe central thought of the Absolute Idealism of Schelling is\nthe underlying identity of Nature and the Self.  In Nature,\nfrom matter up to the organism, the objective factor\npredominates, or, in Schelling's phrase, the conscious self\nis determined by the unconscious.  In morality, science, the\nsubjective factor predominates, or the unconscious is\ndetermined by the conscious.  But the work of art is a natural\nappearance and so unconscious, and is yet the product of a\nconscious activity.  It gives, then, the equilibrium of the\nreal and ideal factors,--just that repose of reconciliation\nor \"indifference\" which alone can show the Absolute.  But--\nand this is of immense importance for our theory--in order\nto explain the identity of subject and object, the Ego must\nhave an intuition, through which, in one and the same\nappearance, it is in itself at once conscious and unconscious,\nand this condition is given in the aesthetic experience.  The\nbeautiful is thus the solution of the riddle of the universe,\nfor it is the possibility of the explicit consciousness of\nthe unity of Nature and the Self--or the Absolute.\n\nSo Beauty is again the pivot on which a system turns.  Its\nplace is not essentially different from that which it held\nin the systems of Kant and Schiller.  As the objective\npossibility for the bridge between sense and reason, as the\nvindication of freedom in the phenomenal world, and as\nvindication of the possible unity of the real and the ideal,\nor nature and self, the world-elements, its philosophical\nsignificance is nearly the same.\n\nWith Hegel Beauty loses little of its commanding position.\nThe universe is in its nature rational; Thought and Being\nare one.  The world-process is a logical process; and nature\nand history, in which spirit of the world realizes itself,\nare but applied logic.  The completely fulfilled or expressed\nTruth is then the concrete world-system; at the same time the\nlife or self of the universe; the Absolute.  This Hegel calls\nthe Idea, and he defines Beauty as the expression of the Idea\nto sense.\n\nThis definition would seem to be as to the letter in accord\nwith the general tendency as have already outlined.  It might\nbe said that it is but another phrasing of Schelling's thought\nof the Absolute as presented to the Ego in Beauty.  But not\nso.  For Schelling, the aesthetic is a schema or form,--that\nis, the form of balance, equilibrium, reconciliation of the\nrational ideal,--not a content.  But Hegel's Beauty expresses\nthe Idea by the way of information or association.  That this\nis true any one of his traditional examples makes evident.\nCorreggio's Madonna of the St. Sebastian is found by him\ninferior to the Sistine Madonna.  Why?  \"In the first picture\nwe have the dearest and loveliest of human relations consecrated\nby contrast with what is Divine.  In the second picture we have\nthe Divine relation itself, showing itself under the limitations\nof the human.\"<1>  Dutch painting, he tells us, ought not to\nbe despised; \"for it is this fresh and wakeful freedom and\nvitality of mind in apprehension and presentation that forms\nthe highest aspect of these pictures.\"  And a commentator adds,\n\"The spontaneous joy of the perfect life is figured to this\nlower sphere.\"  His whole treatment of Art as a symbol confirms\nthis view, as do all his criticisms.  Art or Beauty shall\nreveal to our understanding the eternal Ideal.\n\n<1> Kedney's Hegel's _Aesthetics_, 1892, p. 158.\n\nOn comparing this with what we have won from Kant, Schiller,\nand Schelling, the divergence becomes apparent.  I have tried\nto show that there is no essential difference between these\nthree either in their general view of the aesthetic experience,\nor in the degree of objectivity of their doctrine of Beauty.\nThey do not contradict one another.  They merely emphasize\nnow the unity, now the reconciliation of opposites, in the\naesthetic experience.  The experience of the beautiful\nconstitutes a reconciliation of the warring elements of\nexperience, in a world in which the demands of Reason seem\nto conflict with the logic of events, and the beautiful object\nis such that it constitutes the permanent possibility for this\nreconciliation.\n\nBut the attempt to include Hegel within this circle reveals\nat once the need of further delimitation.  The beautiful is\nto reveal, and to vindicate in revealing, the union of the\nworld-elements, that is, the spirit of the world.  On Hegel's\nown principles, the Idea should be \"expressed to sense.\"  Now\nif this expression is not, after all, directly to sense, but\nthe sense gives merely the occasion for passing over to the\nthought of the Divine, it would seem that the Beauty is not\nafter all in the work of art, but out of it.  The Infinite,\nor the Idea, or the fusion of real and ideal, must be shown\nto sense.\n\nIs there any way in which this is conceivable?  We cannot\ncompletely express to sense Niagara Falls or the Jungfrau,\nfor they are infinitely beyond the possibilities of imitation.\nYet the particular contour of the Jungfrau is never mistaken\nin the smallest picture. In making a model of Niagara we\nshould have to reproduce the relation between body of water,\nwidth of stream, and height of fall, and we might succeed in\ngetting the peculiar effect of voluminousness which marks\nthat wonder of Nature.  The soaring of a lark is not like\nthe pointing upward of a slender Gothic spire, yet there is\na likeness in the attitudes with which we follow them.  All\nthese cases have certain form-qualities in common, by virtue\nof which they resemble each other.  Now it is these very\nform-qualities which Kant is using when he takes the aesthetic\njudgment as representative of reason in the world of sense\nbecause it shows the qualities of the ideas of reason,--that\nis, unconditional totality or freedom.  And we might, indeed,\nhope to \"express the Idea to sense\" if we could find for it\na form-quality, or subjectively, in the phrase of Kant, a\nform of reflection.\n\nWhat is the form of reflection for the Absolute, the Idea?\nIt would appear to be a combination of Unity and Totality--\nself-completeness.  An object, then, which should be self-\ncomplete from all possible points of view, to which could\nbe applied the \"form of reflection\" for the Absolute, would,\ntherefore, alone truly express it, and so alone fulfill the\nend of Beauty.  The Idea would be there in its form; it\nwould be shown to sense, and so first full expressed.\n\nWith this important modification of Hegel's definition of\nBeauty, which brings it into line with the point of view\nalready won, I believe the way is at last opened from the\ntraditional philosophy of aesthetics to a healthy and concrete\npsychological theory.\n\nBut must every self-complete object give rise to the aesthetic\nexperience?  An object is absolutely self-complete only for\nthe perceiving subject; it is so, in other words, only when\nit produces a self-complete experience for that subject.  If\nreconciliation of the warring elements of the universe is the\nend of Beauty it must take place not for, but in, the human\npersonality; it must not be understood, but immediately,\ncompletely experienced; it should be realized in the subject\nof the aesthetic experience, the lover of beauty.  The\nbeautiful object would be not that which should show in\noutline form, or remind of, this Unity of the World, but\nwhich should create for the subject the moment of self-\ncompleteness; which should inform the aesthetic subject with\nthat unity and self-completeness which are the \"forms of\nreflection\" of the Infinite.  The subject should be not a\nmirror of perfection, but a state of perfection.  Only in\nthis sense does the concept of reconciliation come to its\nfull meaning.  Not because I see freedom, but because I am\nfree; not because I think of God, or the Infinite, or the\none, but because I am for the moment complete, at the\nhighest point of energy and unity, does the aesthetic\nexperience constitute such a reconciliation.\n\nNot because I behold the Infinite, but because I have, myself,\na moment of perfection.  Herein it is that our theory constitutes\na complete contradiction to all \"expression\" or \"significant\"\ntheories of the Beautiful, and does away with the necessity those\ntheories are under of reading sermons into stones.  The yellow\nprimrose needs not to remind us of the harmony of the universe,\nor to have ulterior significance whatever, if it gives by its\nown direct simple stimulation a moment of Unity and Self-\ncompleteness.  That immediate experience indeed contains in\nitself the \"form of reflection\" of the Absolute, and it is\nthrough this that we so often pass, in the enjoyment of Beauty,\nto the thought of the divine.  But that thought is a corollary,\na secondary effect, not an essential part of the aesthetic\nmoment.  There is a wonderful bit of unconscious aesthetics in\nthe following passage from Senancour, touching the \"secret of\nrelation\" we have just analyzed.\n\n\"It was dark and rather cold.  I was gloomy, and walked because\nI had nothing to do.  I passed by some flowers placed breast-\nhigh upon a wall.  A jonquil in bloom was there.  It is the\nstrongest expression of desire:  it was the first perfume of\nthe year.  I felt all the happiness destined for man.  This\nunutterable harmony of souls, the phantom of the ideal world,\narose in me complete.  I never felt anything so great or so\ninstantaneous.  I know not what shape, what analogy, what\nsecret of relation it was that made me see in this flower a\nlimitless beauty.... I shall never inclose in a conception this\npower, this immensity that nothing will express; this form that\nnothing will contain; this ideal of a better world which one\nfeels, but which it would seem that nature has not made.\"<1>\n\n<1> Translation by Carleton Noyes:  _The Enjoyment of Art_, 1903,\np. 65.\n\nOur philosophical definition of Beauty has thus taken final\nshape.  The beautiful object possesses those qualities which\nbring the personality into a state of unity and self-completeness.\nLightly to case aside such a definition as abstract, vague,\nEmpty, is no less short sighted than to treat the idea of the\nAbsolute Will, of the Transcendental Reason, of the Eternal\nLove, as mere intellectual factors in the aesthetic experience.\nIt should not be criticised as giving \"no objective account of\nthe nature and origin of Beauty.\"  The nature of Beauty is\nindicated in the definition; the origin of Beauty may be studied\nin its historical development; its reason for being is simply\nthe desire of the human heart for the perfect moment.\n\nBeauty is to bring unity and self-completeness into the\npersonality.  By what means?  What causes can bring about this\neffect?  When we enter the realm of causes and effects, however,\nwe have already left the ground of philosophy, and it is fitting\nthat the concepts which we have to use should be adapted to the\nempirical point of view.  The personality, as dealt with in\npsychology, is but the psychophysical organism; and we need to\nknow only how to translate unity and self-completeness into\npsychological terms.\n\nThe psychological organism is in a state of unity either when\nit is in a state of virtual congealment or emptiness, as in a\ntrance or ecstasy; or when it is in a state of repose, without\ntendency to change.  Secondly, the organism is self-complete when\nit is at the highest possible point of tone, of functional\nefficiency, of enhanced life.  Then a combination of favorable\nstimulation and repose would characterize the aesthetic feeling.\n\nBut it may be said that stimulation and repose are contradictory\nconcepts, and we must indeed admit that the absolute repose of\nthe hypnotic trance is not aesthetic, because empty of stimulus.\nThe only aesthetic repose is that in which stimulation resulting\nin impulse to movement or action is checked or compensated for\nby its antagonistic impulse; inhibition of action, or action\nreturning upon itself, combined with heightening of tone.  But\nthis is TENSION, EQUILIBRIUM, or BALANCE OF FORCES, which is thus\nseen to be A GENERAL CONDITION OF ALL AESTHETIC EXPERIENCE.  The\nconcept is familiar in pictorial composition and to some extent\nalso in music and poetry, but here first appears as grounded in\nthe very demand for the union of repose with activity.\n\nMoreover, this requirement, which we have derived from the\nlogical concepts of unity and totality, as translated into\npsychological terms, receives confirmation from the nature of\norganic life.  It was the perfect moment that we sought, and we\nfound it in the immediate experience of unity and self-completeness;\nand unity for a living being CAN only be equilibrium.  Now it\nappears that an authoritative definition of the general nature of\nan organism makes it \"so built, whether on mechanical principles\nor not, that every deviation from the equilibrium point sets up\na tendency to return to it.\"<1>  Equilibrium, in greater or less\nexcursions from the centre, is thus the ultimate nature of\norganic life.  The perfect equilibrium, that is, equilibrium with\nheightened tone, will then give the perfect moment.\n\n<1>  L.T. Hobhouse, _Mind in Evolution_.\n\nThe further steps of aesthetics are then toward analysis of the\npsychological effect of all the elements which enter into a\nwork of art, with reference to their effect in producing\nstimulation or repose.  What colors, forms, tones, emotions,\nideas, favorably stimulate?  What combinations of these bring\nto repose?  All the modern studies in so-called physiological\naesthetics, into the emotional and other--especially motor--\neffects of color, tone-sensation, melodic sequence, simple\nforms, etc., find here there proper place.\n\nA further important question, as to the fitting psychological\ndesignation of the aesthetic state, is now suggested.  Some\nauthorities speak of the aesthetic attitude or activity,\ndescribing it as \"sympathetic imitation\" or \"absorption;\"\nothers of the aesthetic pleasure.  But, according to our\ndefinition of the aesthetic experience as a combination of\nfavorable stimulation with repose, this state, as involving\n\"a distinctive feeling-tone and a characteristic trend of\nactivity aroused by a certain situation,\"<1> can be no other\nthan an emotion.  This view is confirmed by introspection; we\nspeak of aesthetic activity and aesthetic pleasure, but we\nare conscious of a complete arrest, and sometimes of a very\ndistinct divergence from pure pleasure.  The experience is\nunique, it seems to defy description, to be intense, vivid,\nand yet--like itself alone.  Any attempt to disengage special,\nalready known emotions, even at the play or in hearing music,\nis often in vain, in just those moments when our excitement is\nmost intense.  But the hypothesis of a unique emotion, parallel\nto those of joy, fear, etc., and with a psychological basis as\noutlined, would account for these facts.  The positive toning\nof the experience--what we call aesthetic pleasure--is due not\nonly to the favorable stimulation, but also to the fact that\nthe very antagonism of impulses which constitutes repose\nheightens tone while it inhibits action.  Thus the conditions\nof both factors of aesthetic emotion tend to induct pleasure.\n\n<1> Baldwin's _Dict. Of Phil. And Psychol._  Art.  \"Emotion.\"\n\nIt is, then, clear that no specific aesthetic pleasure need be\nsought.  The very phrase, indeed, is a misnomer, since all\npleasure is qualitatively the same, and differentiated only\nby the specific activities which it accompanies.  It is also\nto be noted that those writers on aesthetics who have dwelt\nmost on aesthetic pleasure have come in conclusion only to\nspecific activities, like the \"imitation\" of Groos, for instance.\nIn the light of the just-won definition of aesthetic emotion,\nit is interesting to examine some of the well-known modern\naesthetic theories.\n\nLipps defines the aesthetic experience as a \"thrill of sympathetic\nfeeling,\" Groos as \"sympathetic imitation,\" evidently assuming\nthat pleasure accompanies this.  But there are many feelings of\nsympathy, and joyful ones, which do not belong to the aesthetic\nrealm.  In the same way, not all \"imitation\" is accompanied by\npleasure, and not all of that falls within the generally accepted\naesthetic field.  If these definitions were accepted as they\nstand, all our rejoicings with friends, all our inspiration from\na healthy, magnetic presence must be included in it.  It is clear\nthat further limitation is necessary; but if to this sympathetic\nimitation, this living through in sympathy, we add the demand\nfor repose, the necessary limitation is made.  Physical exercise\nin general, or the instinctive imitation of energetic, or easy\n(in general FAVORABLE) movements, is pleasurable, indeed, but\nthe experience is not aesthetic,--as is quite clear, indeed, to\ncommon sense,--and it is not aesthetic because it is the\ncontradiction of repose.  A particular case of the transformation\nof pleasurable physical exercise into an aesthetic activity is\nseen in the experience of symmetrical or balanced form; any\nmoderate, smooth exercise of the eye is pleasurable, but this\nalone induces a state of the whole organism combining repose with\nstimulation.\n\nThe theories of Kulpe and Santayana, while they definitely mark\nout the ground, seem to me in need of addition.  \"Absorption in\nthe object in respect to its bare quality and conformation\" does\nnot, of course, give the needed information, for objective beauty,\nof the character of this conformation or form.  But yet, it might\nbe said that the content of beauty might conceivably be deduced\nfrom the psychological conditions of absorption.  In the same\nway, Santayana's \"Beauty as objectified pleasure,\" or pleasure as\nthe quality of a thing, is neither a determination of objective\nbeauty nor a sufficient description of the psychological state.\nYet analysis of those qualities in the thing that cause us to\nmake our pleasure a quality of it would supplement the definition\nsufficiently and completely in the sense of our own formula.  Why\ndo we regard pleasure as the quality of a thing?  Because there\nis something in the thing that makes us spread, as it were, our\npleasure upon it.  This is that which fixates us, arrests us,\nupon it,--which can be only the elements that make for repose.\n\nGuyau, however, comes nearest to our point of view.  \"The beautiful\nis a perception or an action which stimulates life within us under\nits three forms simultaneously (i.e., sensibility, intelligence,\nand will) and produces pleasure by the swift consciousness of this\ngeneral stimulation.\"<1>  It is from this general stimulation that\nGuyau explains the aesthetic effect of his famous drink of milk\namong mountain scenes.  But such general stimulation might\naccompany successful action of any kind, and thus the moral and\nthe aesthetic would fall together.  That M. Guyau is so successful\nin his analysis is due rather to the fact that just this diffused\nstimulation is likely to come from such exercise as is\ncharacterized by the mutual checking of antagonistic impulses\nproducing an equilibrium.  The diffusion of stimulation would be\nour formula for the aesthetic state only if interpreted as\nstimulation arresting action.\n\n<1>  _Problemes de l'Esthetique Contemporaine_ 1902, p. 77.\n\nThe diffusion of stimulation, the equilibrium of impulses, life-\nenhancement through repose!--this is the aesthetic experience.\nBut how, then, it will be asked, are we to interpret the temporal\narts?  A picture or a statue maybe understood through this formula,\nbut hardly a drama or a symphony.  If the form of the one is\nsymmetry, hidden or not, would not the form of the other be\nrepresented by a straight line?  That which has beginning, middle,\nand end is not static but dynamic.\n\nLet us consider once more the concept of equilibrium.  Inhibition\nof action through antagonistic impulses, or action returning upon\nitself, we have defined it; and the line cannot be drawn sharply\nbetween these types.  The visual analogue for equilibrium may be\neither symmetrical figure or circle; the excursion from the\ncentre may be either the swing of the pendulum or the sweep of\nthe planet.  The RETURN is the essential.  Now it is a commonplace\nof criticism--though the significance of the dictum has never been\nsufficiently seen--that the great drama, novel, or symphony does\nreturn upon itself.  The excursion is merely longer, of a different\norder of impulses from that of the picture. The last note is the\nonly possible answer to the first; it contains the first.  The\nlast scene has meaning only as the satisfaction of the first.  The\nmeasure of the perfection of a work of temporal art is thus its\nIMPLICIT character.  The end is contained in the beginning--that\nis the meaning of \"inevitableness.\"\n\nThat the constraining power of drama or symphony is just this\nsense of urgency, of compulsion, from one point to another, is\nbut confirmation of this view.  The temporal art tries ever to\npass from first to last, which is first.  It yearns for unity.\nThe dynamic movement of the temporal arts is cyclic, which is\nultimately static, of the nature of equilibrium.  It is only in\nthe wideness of the sweep that the dynamic repose of poetry and\nmusic differs from the static activity of picture and statue.\n\nThus the Nature of Beauty is in the relation of means to an end;\nthe means, the possibilities of stimulation in the motor, visual,\nauditory, and purely ideal fields; the end, a moment of perfection,\nof self-complete unity of experience, of favorable stimulation\nwith repose.  Beauty is not perfection; but the beauty of an\nobject lies in its permanent possibility of creating the perfect\nmoment.  The experience of this moment, the union of stimulation\nand repose, constitutes the unique aesthetic emotion.\n\n\nIII\nTHE AESTHETIC REPOSE\n\n\nIII\nTHE AESTHETIC REPOSE\n\nTHE popular interest in scientific truth has always had its\nhidden spring in a desire for the marvelous.  The search for\nthe philosopher's stone has done as much for chemistry as the\nlegend of the elixir of life for exploration and geographical\ndiscovery.  From the excitements of these suggestions of the\noccult, the world settled down into a reasonable understanding\nof the facts of which they were but the enlarged and grotesque\nshadows.\n\nSo it has been with physics and physiology, and so also,\npreeminently, with the science of mental life.  Mesmerism,\nhypnotism, the facts of the alteration, the multiplicity, and\nthe annihilation of personality have each brought us their\nmoments of pleasurable terror, and passed thus into the field\nof general interest.  But science can accept no broken chains.\nFor all the thrill of mystery, we may not forget that the\nhypnotic state is but highly strung attention,--at the last\nturn of the screw,--and that the alternation of personality is\nafter all no more than the highest power of variability of\nmood.  In regard to the annihilation of the sense of personality,\nit may be said that no connection with daily experience is at\nfirst apparent.  Scientists, as well as the world at large,\nhave been inclined to look on the loss of the sense of personality\nas pathological; and yet it may be maintained that it is\nnevertheless the typical form of those experiences we ourselves\nregard as the most valuable.\n\nThe loss of personality!  In that dread thought there lies, to\nmost of us, all the sting of death and the victory of the grave.\nIt seems, with such a fate in store, that immortality were\nfutile, and life itself a mockery.  Yet the idea, when dwelt\nupon, assumes an aspect of strange familiarity; it is an old\nfriend, after all.  Can we deny that all our sweetest hours are\nthose of self-forgetfulness?  The language of emotion, religious,\naesthetic, intellectually creative, testifies clearly to the\nfading of the consciousness of self as feeling nears the white\nheat.  Not only in the speechless, stark immobility of the\npathological \"case,\" but in all the stages of religious ecstasy,\naesthetic pleasure, and creative inspiration, is to be traced\nwhat we know as the loss of the feeling of self.  Bernard of\nClairvaux dwells on \"that ecstasy of deification in which the\nindividual disappears in the eternal essence as the drop of\nwater in a cask of wine.\"  Says Meister Eckhart, \"Thou shalt\nsink away from they selfhood, though shalt flow into His self-\npossession, the very thought of Thine shall melt into His Mine;\"\nand St. Teresa, \"The soul, in thus searching for its God,\nfeels with a very lively and very sweet pleasure that is is\nfainting almost quiet away.\"\n\nStill more striking is the language of aesthetic emotion.\nPhilosopher and poet have but one expression for the universal\nexperience.  Says Keats in the \"Ode to a Nightingale:\"--\n\n     \"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains\n        My sense as though of hemlock I had drunk,\n      Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains\n        One minute past, and Lethewards had sunk:\n      'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,\n        But being too happy in thy happiness.\"\n\nAnd in Schopenhauer we read that he who contemplates the\nbeautiful \"forgets even his individuality, his will, and only\ncontinues to exist as the pure subject, the clear mirror of\nthe object.\"\n\nBut not only the religious enthusiast and the worshiper of\nbeauty \"lose themselves\" in ecstasy.  The \"fine frenzy\" of the\nthinker is typical.  From Archimedes, whose life paid the\nforfeit of his impersonal absorption; from Socrates, musing in\none spot from dawn to dawn, to Newton and Goethe, there is but\none form of the highest effort to penetrate and to create.\nEmerson is right in saying of the genius, \"His greatness\nconsists in the fullness in which an ecstatic state is realized\nin him.\"\n\nThe temporary evaporation of the consciousness of one's own\nPersonality is then decidedly not a pathological experience.\nIt seems the condition, indeed, and recognized as such in\npopular judgment, of the deepest feeling and the highest\nachievement.  Perhaps it is the very assumption of this condition\nin our daily thoughts that has veiled the psychological problem\nit presents.  We opine, easily enough, that great deeds are done\nin forgetfulness of self.  But why should we forget ourselves\nin doing great deeds?  Why not as well feel in every act its\nreverberation on the self,--the renewed assurance that it is\nI who can?  Why not, in each aesthetic thrill, awake anew to\nthe consciousness of myself as ruler in a realm of beauty?  Why\nnot, in the rush of intellectual production, glory that \"my\nmind to me a kingdom is\"?  And yet the facts are otherwise:\nin proportion to the intensity and value of the experience is\nits approach to the objective, the impersonal, the ecstatic\nstate.  Then how explain this anomaly?  Why should religious,\naesthetic, and intellectual emotion be accompanied in varying\ndegrees by the loss of self-consciousness?  Why should the\nsense of personality play us so strange a trick as to vanish,\nat the moment of seemingly greatest power, in the very shadow\nof its own glory?\n\nIf now we put the most obvious question, and ask, in explanation\nof its escapades, what the true nature of this personality is,\nwe shall find ourselves quite out of our reckoning on the vast\nsea of metaphysics.  To know what personality IS, \"root and all,\nand all in all,\" is to \"know what God and man is.\"  Fortunately,\nour problem is much more simple.  It is not the personality,\nits reality, its meaning, that vanishes; no, nor even the\npsychological system of dispositions.  We remain, in such a\nmoment of ecstasy, as persons, what we were before.  It is the\nFEELING of personality that has faded; and to find out in what\nthis will-o'-the-wisp feeling of personality resides is a task\nwholly within the powers of psychological analysis.  Let no one\nobject that the depth and value of experience seem to disintegrate\nunder the psychologist's microscope.  The place of the full-orbed\npersonality in a world of noble ends is not affected by the\npossibility that the centre of its conscious crystallization may\nbe found in a single sensation.\n\nThe explanation, then, of this apparent inconsistency--the fading\naway of self in the midst of certain most important experiences--\nmust lie in the nature of the feeling of personality.  What is\nthat feeling?  On what is it based?  How can it be described?\nThe difficulties of introspection have led many to deny the\npossibility of such self-fixation.  The fleeting moment passes,\nand we grasp only an idea or a feeling; the Ego has slipped away\nlike a drop of mercury under the fingers.  Like the hero of the\nGerman poet, who wanted his queue in front,\n\n     \"Then round and round, and out and in,\n      All day that puzzled sage did spin;\n      In vain; it mattered not a pin;\n      The pigtail hung behind him,\"\n\nwhen I turn round upon myself to catch myself in the act of\nthinking, I can never lay hold on anything but a sensation.  I\nmay peel off, like the leaves of an artichoke, my social self,--\nmy possessions and positions, my friends, my relatives; my\nactive self,--my books and implements of work; my clothes; even\nmy flesh, and sit in my bones, like Sydney Smith,--the I in me\nretreating ever to an inner citadel; but I must stop with the\nfeeling that something moves in there.  That is not what my\nself IS, but what the elusive sprite feels like when I have got\nmy finger on him.  In daily experience, however, it is\nunnecessary to proceed to such extremities.  The self, at a\ngiven moment of consciousness, is felt as one group of elements\nwhich form a foreground.  The second group is, we say, before\nthe attention, and is not at that moment felt as self; while\nthe first group is vague, undifferentiated, not attended to,\nbut felt.  Any element in this background can detach itself\nand come into the foreground of attention.  I become conscious\nat this moment, for instance, of the weight of my shoulders\nas they rest on the back of my chair:  that sensation, however,\nbelongs to my self no more than does the sensation of the\nsmoothness of the paper on which my hand rests.  I know I am a\nself, because I can pass, so to speak, between the foreground\nand the background of my consciousness.  It is the feeling of\ntransition that gives me the negative and positive of my\ncircuit; and this feeling of transition, hunted to its lair,\nreveals itself as nothing more nor less than a motor sensation\nfelt in the sense organs which adapt themselves to the new\nconditions.  I look on that picture and on this, and know that\nthey are two, because the change in the adaptation of my sense\norgans to their objects has been felt.  I close my eyes and\nthink of near and far, and it is the change in the sensations\nfrom my eye muscles that tells me I have passed between the\ntwo; or, to express it otherwise, that it is in me the two\nhave succeeded each other.  While the self in its widest sense,\ntherefore, is co-extensive with consciousness, the distinctive\nfeeling of self as opposed to the elements in consciousness\nwhich represent the outer world is based on those bodily\nsensations which are connected with the relations of objects.\nMy world--the foreground of my consciousness--would fall in on\nme and crush me, if I could not hold it off by just this power\nto feel it different from my background; and it is felt as\ndifferent through the motor sensations involved in the change\nof my sense organs in passing from one to the other.  The\ncondition of the feeling of transition, and hence of the\nfeeling of personality, is then the presence in consciousness\nof at least two possible objects of attention; and the formal\nconsciousness of self might be schematized as a straight line\nconnecting two points, in which one point represents the\nforeground, and the other the background, of consciousness.\n\nIf we now accept this view, and ask under what conditions the\nsense of self may be lost, the answer is at once suggested.\nIt will happen when the \"twoness\" disappears, so that the line\nconnecting and separating the two objects in our scheme drops\nout or is indefinitely decreased.  When background or foreground\ntends to disappear or to merge either into the other, or when\nbackground or foreground makes an indissoluble unity or\nunbreakable circle, the content of consciousness approaches\nabsolute unity.  There is no \"relating\" to be done, no\n\"transition\" to be made.  The condition, then, for the feeling\nof personality is no longer present, and there results a\nfeeling of complete unity with the object of attention; and if\nthis object of attention is itself without parts or differences,\nthere results an empty void, Nirvana.\n\nSuppose that I gaze, motionless, at a single bright light until\nall my bodily sensations have faded.  Then one of the \"points\"\nin our scheme has dropped out.  In my mind there reigns but one\nthought.  The transition feeling goes, for there is nothing to\nbe \"related.\"  Now \"it is one blaze, about me and within me;\"\nI am that light, and myself no longer.  My consciousness is a\nunit or a blank, as you please.  If you say that I am self-\nhypnotized, I may reply that I have simply ceased to feel\nmyself different from the content of my consciousness, because\nthat content has ceased to allow a transition between its terms.\n\nThis is, however, not the only possible form of the disappearance\nof our \"twoness,\" and the resulting loss of the self-feeling.\nWhen the sequence of objects in consciousness is so rapid that\nthe feeling of transition, expressed in motor terms, drops below\nthe threshold of sensation, the feeling of self again fades.\nThink, for instance, of the Bacchanal orgies.  The votary of\nDionysus, dancing, shrieking, tearing at his hair and at his\ngarments, lost in the lightning change of his sensations all\npower of relating them.  His mind was ringed in a whirling\ncircle, every point of which merged into the next without\npossibility of differentiation.  And since he could feel no\ntransition periods, he could feel HIMSELF no longer; he was\none with the content of his consciousness, which consciousness\nwas no less a unit than our bright light aforesaid, just as a\ncircle is as truly a unit as a point.  The priest of Dionysus\nmust have felt himself only a dancing, shouting thing, one\nwith the world without, \"whirled round in earth's diurnal course\nwith rocks and stones and trees.\"  And how perfectly the ancient\nbelief fits our psychophysical analysis!  The Bacchic enthusiast\nbelieved himself possessed with the very ecstasy of the spirit\nof nature.  His inspired madness was the presence of the god\nwho descended upon him,--the god of the vine, of spring; the\nrising sap, the rushing stream, the bursting leaf, the rippling\nsong, all the life of flowing things, they were he!  \"Autika ga\npasa zoreusei,\" was the cry,--\"soon the whole earth will dance\nand sing!\"\n\nYes, this breaking down of barriers, this melting of the\npersonality into its surroundings, this strange and sweet self-\nabandonment must have its source in just the disappearance of\nthe sensation of adjustment, on which the feeling of personality\nis based.  But how can it be, we have to ask, that a principle\nso barren of emotional significance should account for the\necstasy of  religious emotion, of aesthetic delight, of creative\ninspiration?  It is not, however, religion or beauty or genius\nthat is the object of our inquiry at this moment, but simply\nthe common element in the experience of each of these which\nwe know as the disappearance of self-feeling.  How the\ncircumstances peculiar to religious worship, aesthetic appreciation,\nand intellectual creation bring about the formal conditions of\nthe loss of personal feeling must be sought in a more detailed\nanalysis, and we shall then be able to trace the source of the\nintensity of emotion in these experiences.  What, then, first\nof all, are the steps by which priest and poet and thinker have\npassed into the exaltation of selfless emotion?  Fortunately,\nthe passionate pilgrims of all three realms of deep experience\nhave been ever prodigal of their confessions.  The religious\necstasy, however, embodies the most complete case, and allows\nthe clearest insight into the nature of the experience; and will\ntherefore be dealt with at greatest length.\n\nThe typical religious enthusiast is the mystic.  From Plotinus\nto Buddha, from Meister Eckhart to Emerson, the same doctrine\nhas brought the same fruits of religious rapture.  There is one\nGod, and in contemplation of Him the soul becomes of his\nessence.  Whether it is held, as by the Neoplatonists, that\nBeing and Knowledge are one, that the procedure of the world\nout of God is a process of self-revelation, and the return of\nthings into God a process of higher and higher intuition, and\nso the mystic experience an apprehension of the highest rather\nthan a form of worship; or whether it is expressed as by the\nhumble Beguine, Mechthild,--\"My soul swims in the Being of God\nas a fish in water,'--the kernel of the mystic's creed is the\nsame.  In ecstatic contemplation of God, and, in the higher\nstates, in ecstatic union with Him, in sinking the individuality\nin the divine Being, is the only true life.  Not all, it is\ntrue, who hold the doctrine have had the experience; not all can\nsay with Eckhart or with Madame Guyon, \"I have seen God in my\nown soul,\" or \"I have become one with God.\"  It is from the\nnarratives and the counsels of perfection of these, the chosen,\nthe initiate, who have passed beyond the veil, that light may\nbe thrown on the psychological conditions of mystic ecstasy.\n\nThe most illuminating account of her actual mystical experiences\nis given by Madame Guyon, the first of the sect or school of the\nQuietists.  This gentle Frenchwoman had a gift for psychological\nobservation, and though her style is neither poetic nor\nphilosophical, I may be pardoned for quoting at some length her\nnaive and lucid revelations.  The following passages, beginning\nwith an early religious experience, are taken almost at random\nfrom the pages of her autobiography:--\n\n\"These sermons made such an impression on my mind, and absorbed\nme so strongly in God, that I could not open my eyes nor hear\nwhat was said.\"  \"To hear Thy name, O my God, could put me into\na profound prayer....I could not see any longer the saints nor\nthe Holy Virgin outside of God; but I saw them all in Him,\nscarcely being able to distinguish them from Him....I could\nnot hear God nor our Lord Jesus Christ spoken of without being,\nas it were, outside of myself [hors de moi]....Love seized me\nso strongly that I remained absorbed, in a profound silence and\na peace that I cannot describe.  I made ever new efforts, and\nI passed my life in beginning my prayers without being able to\ncarry them through....I could ask nothing for myself nor for\nanother, nor wish anything but this divine will....I do not\nbelieve that there could be in the world anything more simple\nand more unified....It is a state of which one can say nothing\nmore, because it evades all expression,--a state in which the\ncreature is lost, engulfed.  All is God, and the soul perceives\nonly God.  It has to strive no more for perfection, for growth,\nfor approach to Him, for union.  All is consummated in the unity,\nbut in a manner so free, so natural, so easy, that the soul\nlives from the air which it breathes....The spirit is empty, no\nmore traversed by thoughts; nothing fills the void, which is no\nlonger painful, and the soul finds in itself an immense capacity\nthat nothing can either limit or destroy.\"\n\nCan we fail to trace in these simple words the shadow of all\nreligious exaltation that is based on faith alone?  Madame Guyon\nis strung to a higher key than most of this dull and relaxed\nworld; but she has struck the eternal note of contemplative\nworship.  Such is the sense of union with the divine Spirit.\nSuch are the thoughts and even the words of Dante, Eckhart, St.\nTeresa, the countless mystics of the Middle Age, and of the\nfollowers of Buddhism in its various shades, from the Ganges to\nthe Charles.  Two characteristics disengage themselves to view:\nthe insistence on the unity of God--IN whom alone the Holy\nVirgin and the saints are seen--from a psychological point of\nview only; and the mind's emptiness of thought in a state of\nreligious ecstasy.  But without further analysis, we may ask,\nas the disciples of the mystics have always done, how this\nstate of blissful union is to be reached.  They have always\nbeen minute in their prescriptions, and it is possible to\nderive therefrom what may be called the technique of the mystic\nprocedure.\n\n\"The word mystic,\" to quote Walter Pater, \"has been derived from\na Greek word which signifies to shut, as if one shut one's lips,\nbrooding on what cannot be uttered; but the Platonists themselves\nderive it rather from the act of shutting the eyes, that one may\nsee the more, inwardly.\"  Of such is the counsel of St. Luis de\nGranada, \"Imitate the sportsman who hoods the falcon that it be\nmade subservient to his rule;\" and of another Spanish mystic,\nPedro de Alcantara:  \"In meditation, let the person rouse himself\nfrom things temporal, and let him collect himself within himself\n....Here let him hearken to the voice of God...as though there\nwere no other in the world save God and himself.\"  St. Teresa\nfound happiness only in \"shutting herself up within herself.\"\nVocal prayer could not satisfy her, and she adopted mental\nprayer.  The four stages of her experience--which she named\n\"recollectedness,\" \"quietude\" (listening rather than speaking),\n\"union\" (blissful sleep with the faculties of the mind still),\n\"ecstasy or rapture\"--are but progressive steps in the sealing\nof the senses.  The yoga of the Brahmins, which is the same as\nthe \"union\" of the Cabalists, is made to depend upon the same\nconditions,--passivity, perseverance, solitude.  The novice\nmust arrest his breathing, and may meditate on mystic symbols\nalone, by way of reaching the formless, ineffable Buddha.  But\nit is useless to heap up evidence; the inference is sufficiently\nclear.\n\nThe body is first brought into a state either of nervous\ninstability or irritability by ascetic practices, or of nervous\ninsensibility by the persistent withdrawal of all outer\ndisturbance; and the mind is fixed upon a single object,--the\none God, the God eternal, absolute, indivisible.  Recalling our\nformer scheme for the conditions of the sense of personality,\nwe shall see that we have here the two poles of consciousness.\nThen, as the tension is sharpened, what happens?  Under the\nartificial conditions of weakened nerves, of blank surroundings,\nthe self-background drops.  The feeling of transition disappears\nwith the absence of related terms; and the remaining, the\npositive pole of consciousness, is an undifferentiated Unity,\nwith which the person must feel himself one.  The feeling of\npersonality is gone with that on which it rests, and its loss\nis joined with an overwhelming sense of union with the One, the\nAbsolute, God!\n\nThe object of mystic contemplation is the One indivisible.  But\nwe can also think the One as the unity of all differences, the\nCircle of the Universe.  Those natures also which, like Amiel's,\nare \"bedazzled with the Infinite\" and thirst for \"totality\"\nattain in their reveries to the same impersonal ecstasy.  Amiel\nwrites of a \"night on the sandy shore of the North Sea, stretched\nat full length upon the beach, my eyes wandering over the Milky\nWay.  Will they ever return to me, those grandiose, immortal,\ncosmogonic dreams, in which one seems to carry the world in one's\nbreast, to touch the stars, to possess the Infinite!\"  The\nreverie of Senancour, on the bank of the Lake of Bienne, quoted\nby Matthew Arnold, reveals the same emotion:  \"Vast consciousness\nof a nature everywhere greater than we are, and everywhere\nimpenetrable; all-embracing passion, ripened wisdom, delicious\nself-abandonment.\"  In the coincidence of outer circumstance--\nthe lake, the North Sea, night, the attitude of repose--may we\nnot trace a dissolution of the self-background, similar to that\nof the mystic worshiper?  And in the Infinite, no less than in\nthe One, must the soul sink and melt into union with it, because\nwithin it there is no determination, no pause, and no change.\n\nThe contemplation of the One, however, is not the only type of\nmystic ecstasy.  That intoxication of emotion which seizes upon\nthe negro camp meeting of to-day, as it did upon the Delphic\npriestesses two thousand years ago, seems at first glance to\nhave nothing in common psychologically with the blessed\nnothingness of Gautama and Meister Eckhart.  But the loss of\nthe feeling of personality and the sense of possession by a\ndivine spirit are the same. How, then, is this state reached?\nBy means, I believe, which recall the general formula for the\nDisappearance of self-feeling.  To repeat the monosyllable OM\n(Brahm) ten thousand times; to circle interminably, chanting\nthe while, about a sacred ire; to listen to the monotonous\nmagic drum; to whirl the body about; to rock to and fro on the\nknees, vociferating prayers, are methods which enable the\nmembers of the respective sects in which they are practiced\neither to enter, as they say, into the Eternal Being, or to\nbecome informed with it through the negation of the self.  The\nsense of personality, at any rate, is more or less completely\nlost, and the ecstasy takes a form more or less passionate,\naccording as the worshiper depends on the rapidity rather than\non the monotony of his excitations.  Here, again, the self-\nbackground drops, inasmuch as every rhythmical movement tends\nto become automatic, and then unconscious.  Thus what we are\nwont to call the inspired madness of the Delphic priestesses\nwas less the expression of ecstasy than the means of its\nexcitation.  Perpetual motion, as well as eternal rest, may\nbring about the engulfment of the self in the object.  The\nmost diverse types of religious emotions, IN SO FAR AS THEY\nPRESENT VARIATIONS IN THE DEGREE OF SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, are\nthus seen to be reducible to the same psychological basis.\nThe circle, no less than the point, is the symbol of the One,\nand the \"devouring unity\" that lays hold on consciousness\nfrom the loss of the feeling of transition comes in the\nunrest of enthusiasm no less than in the blissful nothing of\nNirvana.\n\nAt this point, I am sure, the reader will interpose a protest.\nIs, then, the mystery of self-abandonment to the highest to\nbe shared with the meanest of fanatics?  Are the rapture of\nDante and the trance of the Omphalopsychi sprung from the\nsame root?  There is no occasion, however, for the revolt of\nsentiment because we fail to emphasize here the important\ndifferences in the emotional character and value of the states\nin question.  What interests us is only one aspect which they\nhave in common, the surrender of the sense of personality.\nThat is based on formal relations of the elements of\nconsciousness, and the explanation of its disappearance\napplies as well to the whirling dervish as to the converts\nof a revivalist preacher.\n\nThe mystic, then, need only shut his senses to the world, and\ncontemplate the One.  Subject fuses with object, and he feels\nhimself melt into the Infinite.  But each experience is not\nthe exclusive property of the religious enthusiast.  The\nworshiper of beauty has given evidence of the same feelings.\nAnd yet, in his aesthetic rapture, the latter dwells with\ndeliberation on his delights, and while luxuriating in the\ninfinite labyrinths of beauty can scarcely be described as\nmusing on an undifferentiated Unity.  So far, at least, it\ndoes not appear that our formula applies to aesthetic feeling.\n\nAesthetic feeling arises in the contemplation of a beautiful\nobject.  But what makes an object beautiful?  To go still\nfurther back, just what, psychologically, does contemplation\nmean?  To contemplate an object is to dwell on the idea or\nimage of it, and to dwell upon an idea means to carry it out\nincipiently.  We may go even further, and say it is the\ncarrying out by virtue of which we grasp the idea.  How do\nwe think of a tall pine-tree?  By sweeping our eyes up and\ndown its length, and out to the ends of its branches; and if\nwe are forbidden to use our eye muscles even infinitesimally,\nthen we cannot think of the visual image.  In short, we\nperceive an object in space by carrying out its motor\nsuggestions; more technically expressed, by virtue of a\ncomplex of motor impulses aroused by it; more briefly, by\nincipiently imitating it.  Contemplation is inner imitation.\n\nNow a beautiful object is first of all a unified object; why\nthis must be so has been considered in the preceding chapter.\nIn it all impulses of soul and sense are bound to react upon\none another, and to lead back to one another.  And all the\nelements, which in contemplation we reproduce in the form of\nmotor impulses, are bound to make a closed circle of these\nsuggested energies.  The symmetrical picture calls out a set\nof motor impulses which \"balance,\"--a system of energies\nreacting on one centre; the sonnet takes us out on one wave\nof rhythm and of thought, to bring us back on another to the\nsame point; the sonata does the same in melody.  In the\n\"whirling circle\" of the drama, not a word or an act that is\nnot indissolubly linked with before and after.  Thus the unity\nof a work of art makes of the system of suggested energies\nwhich form the foreground of attention an impregnable, an\ninvulnerable circle.\n\nNot only, however, are we held in equilibrium in the object\nof attention; we cannot connect with it our self-background,\nfor the will cannot act on the object of aesthetic feeling.\nWe cannot eat the grapes of Apelles or embrace the Galatea of\nPygmalion; we cannot rescue Ophelia or enlighten Juliet; and\nof impulse to interfere, to connect the scene with ourselves,\nwe have none.  But this is a less important factor in the\nsituation.  That the house is dark, the audience silent, and\nall motor impulses outside of the aesthetic circle stifled, is,\ntoo, only a superficial, and, so to speak, a negative condition.\nThe real ground of the possibility of a momentary self-\nannihilation lies in the fact that all incitements to motor\nimpulse--except those which belong to the indissoluble ring\nof the object itself--have been shut out by the perfection of\nunity to which the aesthetic object (here the drama) has been\nbrought.  The background fades; the foreground satisfies,\nincites no movement; and with the disappearance of the\npossibility of action which would connect the two, fades also\nthat which dwells in this feeling of transition,--the sense\nof personality.  The depth of aesthetic feeling lies not in\nthe worthy countryman who interrupts the play with cries for\njustice on the villain, but in him who creates the drama again\nwith the poet, who lives over again in himself each of the\nthrills of emotion passing before him, and loses himself in\ntheir web.  The object is a unity or our whirling circle of\nimpulses, as you like to phrase it.  At any rate, out of that\nunity the soul does not return upon itself; it remains one\nwith it in the truest sense.\n\nThe loss of the sense of personality is an integral part of\nthe aesthetic experience; and we have seen how it is a\nnecessary psychological effect of the unity of the object.\nFrom another point of view it may be said that the unity of\nthe object is constituted just by the inhibition of all\ntendency to movement through the balance or centrality of\nimpulses suggested by it.  In other words, the balance of\nimpulses makes us feel the object a unity.  And this balance\nof impulses, this inhibition of movement, corresponding to\nunity, is what we know as aesthetic repose.  Thus the conditions\nof aesthetic repose and of the loss of self-feeling are the\nsame.  In fact, it might be said that, within this realm,\nthe two conceptions are identical.  The true aesthetic repose\nis just that perfect rest in the beautiful object which is\nthe essence of the loss of the sense of personality.\n\nSubtler and rarer, again, than the raptures of mysticism and\nof beauty worship is the ecstasy of intellectual production;\nyet the \"clean, clear joy of creation,\" as Kipling names it,\nis not less to be grouped with those precious experiences in\nwhich the self is sloughed away, and the soul at one with its\ncontent.  I speak, of course, of intellectual production in\nfull swing, in the momentum of success.  The travail of soul\nover apparently hopeless difficulties or in the working out\nof indifferent details takes place not only in full self-\nconsciousness, but in self-disgust; there we can take Carlyle\nto witness.  But in the higher stages the fixation of truth\nand the appreciation of beauty are accompanied by the same\nextinction of the feeling of individuality.  Of testimony we\nhave enough and to spare.  I need not fill these pages with\nconfessions and anecdotes of the ecstatical state in which\nall great deeds of art and science are done.  The question is\nrather to understand and explain it on the basis of the formal\nscheme to which we have found the religious and the aesthetic\nattitudes to conform.\n\nJean Paul says somewhere that, however laborious the completion\nof a great work, its conception came as a whole,--in one flash.\nWe remember the dreams of Schiller in front of his red curtain\nand the resulting musikalische Stimmung,--formless, undirected,\nout of which his poem shaped itself; the half-somnambulic\nstate of Goethe and his frantic haste in fixation of the vision,\nin which he dared not even stop to put his paper straight, but\nwrote over the corners quite ruthlessly.  Henner once said to\na painter who mourned that he had done nothing on his picture\nfor the Salon, though he saw it before him, \"What!  You see\nyour picture!  Then it is done.  You can paint it in an hour.\"\nIf all these traditions be true, they are significant; and\nthe necessary conditions of such composition seem to be highly\nanalogous to those of the aesthetic emotion.  We have, first\nof all, a lack of outward stimulation, and therefore possible\ndisappearance of the background.  How much better have most\npoets written in a garret than in a boudoir!  Goethe's bare\nlittle room in the garden house at Weimar testifies to the\nsevere conditions his genius found necessary.  Tranquillity\nof the background is the condition of self-absorption, or--\nand this point seems to me worth emphasizing--a closed circle\nof outer activities.  I have never believed, for instance, in\nthe case of the old tale of Walter Scott and the button, that\nit was the surprise of his loss that tied the tongue of the\nfuture author's rival.  The poor head scholar had simply made\nfor himself a transitionless experience with that twirling\nbutton, and could then sink his consciousness in its object,--\nat that moment the master's questions.  It is with many of\nus a familiar experience, that of not being able to think\nunless in constant motion.  Translated into our psychological\nscheme, the efficiency of these movements would be explained\nthus:  Given the \"whirling circles,\"--the background of\ncontinuous movement sensations, which finally dropped out of\nconsciousness, and the foreground of continuous thought,--the\nfirst protected, so to speak, the second, since they were\nmutually exclusive, and what broke the one destroyed the other.\n\nBut to return from this digression, a background fading into\nnothingness, either as rest or as a closed circle of automatic\nmovements, is the first condition of the ecstasy of mental\nproduction.  The second is given in the character of its\nobject.  The object of high intellectual creation is a unity,--\na perfect whole, revealed, as Jean Paul says, in a single\nmovement of genius.  Within the enchanted circle of his\ncreation, the thinker is absorbed, because here too all his\nimpulses are turned to one end, in relation to which nothing\nelse exists.\n\nI am aware that many will see a sharp distinction here between\nthe work of the creator or discoverer in science and the artist.\nThey may maintain, in Schopenhauer's phrase, that the aim and\nend of science is just the connection of objects in the service\nof the will of the individual, and hence transition between the\nvarious terms is constant; while art, on the other hand, indeed\nisolates its object, and so drops transitions.  But I think\nwhere we speak of \"connection\" thus, we mean the larger sweep\nof law.  If the thinker looks beyond his special problem at\nall, it is, like Buddha, to \"fix his eyes upon the chain of\ncausation.\"  The scientist of imagination sees his work under\nthe form of eternity, as one link of that endless chain, one\natom in that vortex of almighty purposes, which science will\nneed all time to reveal.  For him it is either one question,\nclosed within itself by its own answer, or it is the Infinite\nLaw of the Universe,--the point or the circle.  From all points\nof view, then, the object of creation in art or science is a\ngirdle of impulses from which the mind may not stray.  The two\nconditions of our formal scheme are given:  a term which\ndisappears, and one which is a perfect whole.  Transition\nbetween background and foreground has dropped.  Between the\nobjects of attention in the foreground it has no meaning,\nbecause the foreground is an indissoluble unity.  With that\nobject the self must feel itself one, since the distinctive\nself-feeling has disappeared with the opportunity for transition.\n\nWe have thus swung around the circle of mystical, aesthetic,\nand creative emotion, and we have found a single formula to\napply, and a single explanation to avail for the loss of\npersonality.  The conditions of such experiences bring about\nthe disappearance of one term, and the impregnable unity of\nthe other.  Without transition between two terms in consciousness,\ntwo objects of attention, the loss of the feeling of personality\ntakes place according to natural psychological laws.  It is no\nlonger a mystery that in intense experience the feeling of\npersonality dissolves.\n\nOne point, however, does remain still unexplained,--the bliss\nof self-abandonment.  Whence are the definiteness and intensity\nof the religious and aesthetic emotions?  The surrender of the\nsense of personality, it seems, is based on purely formal\nrelations of the elements of consciousness, common to all three\ngroups of the analyzed emotions. Yet it is precisely with a\nfading of self-feeling that intensity and definiteness deepen.\nBut how can different and emotionally significant feelings\narise from a single formal process?  How can the worship of\nGod become ecstatic joy through the loss of personality?  The\nsolution of this apparent paradox is demanded not only in\nlogic, but also by those who would wish to see the religious\ntrance distinguished also in its origin from those of baser\ncontent.\n\nBut it is, after all, the formal nature of the phenomenon that\ngives us light.  If variation in the degree of self-feeling is\nthe common factor, and the disappearance of the transition-\nfeeling its cause, then the lowest member of the scale, in\nwhich the loss of self-feeling takes place with mathematical\ncompleteness, must be included.  That is the hypnotic trance.\nIt is not necessary at this place to emphasize the fact that\nour theory, if accepted, would constitute a theory and a\ndefinition also of hypnotism.  Of interest to our inquiry is\nmerely a characteristic mark of the hypnotic state,--its\ntremendous suggestibility.  Why is this?  Our theory would\nanswer that all impulses are held in equilibrium, and that an\nexternal suggestion has thus no rivals.  Whatever the cause,\nthis last is at any rate the fact.  All suggestions seem to\ndouble in emotional value.  Tell the hypnotic subject that\nhe is sailing up the Rhine, and the most vivid admiration is\nin his aspect; he gazes in heart-felt devotion if it is a\npretty girl he is bid to look at; he quaffs a glass of water\nwith livelier delight than he would show for the draught of\nChateau Yquem of which he is led to think.\n\nNow in religious and aesthetic experience there is brought\nabout the same equilibrium or unity of impulses, resulting\nin analogous loss of self-feeling.  But it is a most\ninteresting fact that the FORM of the contemplated object\nis the cause of this arrest and repose.  God, the circle of\nthe Infinite, the Eternal One, enter into play as \"unity\"\nalone.  What, then, of the content?  After the analogy of\nthe extreme case, the content--that is, emotional value\nand definite emotional tone--takes the place of the external\nsuggestion.  Under just the conditions of the religious\ntrance, the element of reverence, of joyous sentiment, is\nable suddenly to take on a more vivid aspect.  It may not\nbe that the emotion itself is greater, but it now holds the\nfield.  It may not be that it is more intense, but the\nintensity of concentration which takes on its color makes\nit seem so.  The \"rapture\" is just the sense of being caught\nup into union with the highest; the joy of the rapture is\nthe joy of every thought of God, here left free to brighten\ninto ecstasy; and its \"revelation-value\" is again the sense\nof immediate union with a Being the intellectual concept of\nwhom is immensely vivified.\n\nSo may be analyzed the aesthetic ecstasy.  The tension of\nthose mutually antagonistic impulses which make balance, and\nso unity, and so the conditions for loss of sense of self,\nclears the way for tasting the full savor of pleasure in\nbright color, flowing line, exquisite tone-sequence, moving\nthought.  Many a commonplace experience, says M. Souriau,\nsuddenly takes on a charm when seen in the arrested aesthetic\nvision.  \"Every one can have observed that an object in itself\nagreeable to look on, like a bouquet of flowers, or the fresh\nface of a young girl, takes on a sort of magic and supernatural\nbeauty if we regard it mechanically while listening to music.\"<1>\nThe intensity of concentration caused by the unity of form\nfuses with this suggested vividness of feeling from content\nand material, and the whole is felt as intensity of aesthetic\nemotion.  The Sistine Madonna would not strike so deep in\nfeeling were it less crystalline in its unity, less trance-like\nin its repose, and so less enchanting in its suggestion.\n\n<1> P. Souriau, _La Suggestion en l'Art._\n\nSo it is not only the man of achievement who sees but one thing\nat a time.  To enter intensely into any ideal experience means\nto be blind to all others.  One must lose one's own soul to\ngain the world, and none who enter and return from the paradise\nof selfless ecstasy will question that it is gained.  It may\nbe that personality is a hindrance and a barrier, and that we\nare only truly in harmony with the secret of our own existence\nwhen we cease to set ourselves over against the world.\nNevertheless, the sense of individuality is a possession for\nwhich the most of mankind would pay the price, if it must be\npaid, even of eternal suffering.  The delicious hour of fusion\nwith the universe is precious, so it seems to us now, just\nbecause we can return from it to our own nest, and, close and\nwarm there, count up our happiness.  The fragmentariness and\nmultiplicity of life are, then, the saving of the sense of\nselfhood, and we must indeed\n\n\t  \"Rejoice that man is hurled\n\tFrom change to change unceasingly,\n\tHis soul's wings never furled.\"\n\n\nIV\nTHE BEAUTY OF FINE ART\n\n\nIV\nA.  THE BEAUTY OF VISUAL FORM\n\nI\n\nIN what consists the Beauty of Visual Form?  The older writers\non what we now know as the science of art did not ask themselves\nthis question.  Although we are accustomed to hear that order,\nsymmetry, unity in variety, was the Greek, and in particular\nthe Platonic, formula for beauty, we observe, on examining the\npassages cited in evidence, that it is rather the moral quality\nappertaining to these characteristics that determines them as\nbeautiful; symmetry is beautiful, because harmonious, and\ninducing order and self-restraint.  Aristotle's single\npronouncement in the sense of our question is the dictum:  there\nis no beauty without a certain magnitude.  Lessing, in his\n\"Laocoon,\" really the first modern treatise in aesthetics,\ndiscusses the excellences of painting and poetry, but deals\nwith visible beauty as if it were a fixed quality, understood\nwhen referred to, like color.  This is undoubtedly due to his\nunconscious reference of beauty to the human form alone; a\nreference which he would have denied, but which influences his\nwhole aesthetic theory.  In speaking of a beautiful picture, for\ninstance, he would have meant first of all the representation\nof beautiful persons in it, hardly at all that essential beauty\nof the picture as painting, to which every inch of the canvas\nis alike precious.  It is clear to us now, however, that the\nbeauty of the human form is the most obscure of all possible\ncases, complex in itself, and overlaid and involved as it is\nwith innumerable interests and motives of extra-aesthetic\ncharacter. Beauty in simple forms must be our first study;\nand great credit is due to Hogarth for having propounded in\nhis \"Analysis of Beauty\" the simple question,--what makes the\nquality of beauty to the eye?\n\nBut in visible beauty, the aesthetic value of pure form is\nnot the only element involved:  or at least is must be\nsettled whether or not it is the only element involved.  If\nin a work of art, as we believe, what belongs to its excellence\nbelongs to its beauty, we may not applaud one painter, for\ninstance, for his marvelous color-schemes, another for his\nexpression of emotion, another for his delineation of\ncharacter, without acknowledging that expression of character\nand emotion come within our concept of visible beauty.  Franz\nvon Lenbach was once asked what he thought likely to be the\nfate of his own work.  \"As for that,\" he replied, \"I think I\nmay possibly have a chance of living; but ONLY if\nIndividualization or Characterization be deemed to constitute\na quality of permanent value in a picture.  This, however, I\nshall never know, for it can only be adjudged by posterity.\nIf that verdict should prove unfavorable, then my work, too,\nwill perish with the rest,--for it cannot compare on their\nlines with the great masters of the past.\"  That this is\nindeed an issue is shown by the contrasting opinion of the\ncritic who exclaimed before a portrait, \"Think away the\nhead and face, and you will have a wonderful effect of color!\"\nThe analysis of visible beauty accordingly resolves itself\ninto the explanation of the beauty of form (including shape\nand color) and the fixing in relation thereto of other\nfactors.\n\nThe most difficult part of our task is indeed behind us.  We\nhave already defined Beauty in general:  we have outlined\nin a preceding essay the abstract aesthetic demands, and we\nhave now only to ask through what psychological means these\ndemands can be and are in fact met.  In other words we have\nto show that what we intensely feel as Beauty can and does\nexemplify these principles, and through them is explained and\naccounted for.  Beauty has been defined as that combination\nof qualities in the object which brings about a union of\nstimulation and repose in the enjoyer.  How must this be\ninterpreted with reference to the particular facts of visual\nform?\n\nThe most immediate reference is naturally to the sense organ\nitself; and the first question is therefore as to the\nfavorable stimulations of the eye.  What, in general, does\nthe eye demand of its object?\n\n\nII\n\nThe simplest element of visual experience is of course found\nin light and color, the sensation of the eye as such.  Yet\nthere is no branch of aesthetic which is so incomplete.  We\nknow that the sensation of light or color, if not too weak\nor too violent, is in itself pleasing.  The bright, the\nglittering, shining object, so long as it is not painful,\nis pleasantly stimulating.  Gems, tinsel, lacquer, polish,\ntestify to this taste, from the most primitive to the most\ncivilized man.  Color, too, if distinct, not over-bright,\nnor too much extended in field, is in itself pleasing.  The\nsingle colors have been the object of comparatively little\nstudy.  Experiment seems to show that the colors containing\nmost brightness--white, red, and yellow--are preferred.\nBaldwin, in his \"dynamogenic\" experiments,<1> based on \"the\nview that the infant's hand movements in reaching or\ngrasping are the best index of the kind and intensity of\nits sensory experiences,\" finds that the colors range\nthemselves in order of attractiveness, blue, white, red,\ngreen, brown.  Further corrections lay more emphasis upon\nthe white.  Yellow was not included in the experiments.\nCohn's results, which show a relative dislike of yellow,\nare contradicted by other observers, notably Major and\nBaker,<2> and (unpublished) experiments of my own, including\nthe aesthetic preferences of seven or eight different sets\nof students at Radcliffe and Wellesley colleges.  Experiments\nof this kind are particularly difficult, inasmuch as the\nmaterial, usually colored paper, varies considerably from\nthe spectral color, and differences in saturation, hue, and\nbrightness make great differences in the results, while the\nfeeling-tone of association, individual or racial, very\noften intrudes.  But other things being equal, the bright,\nthe clear, the saturated color is relatively more pleasing,\nand white, red, and yellow seem especially preferred.\n\n<1> _Mental Development in the Child and the Race_, 1895,\npp. 39, 50, ff.\n<2> E. S. Baker, _Univ. of Toronto Studies, Psychol. Series_,\nNo. 4; J. Cohn, _Philos. Studien_, vol. X; Major, _Amer. Jour.\nof Psychol._, vol. vii.\n\nNow, according to the Hering theory of color, white, red, and\nyellow are the so-called \"dissimilating\" colors in the three\npairs, white-black, red-green, and yellow-blue, corresponding\nto three hypothetical visual substances in the retina.  These\nsubstances, that is, in undergoing a kind of chemical\ndisintegration under the action of light-rays, are supposed to\ngive the sensations white, red, or yellow respectively, and in\nrenewing themselves again to give the sensations of black,\ngreen, and blue.  The dissimilating process seems to bring\nabout stronger reactions on the physiological side, as if it\nwere a more exciting process.  Thus it is found<1> that as\nmeasured by the increase in strength of the hand grip under\nthe stimulation of the respective colors, red has particularly\nexciting qualities, but the other colors have an analogous\neffect, lessening, however, with the descent from red to\nviolet.  The pleasure in bright red, or yellow, for instance,\nmay thus well be the feeling-tone arising in the purely\nphysiological effect of the color.  If red works like a trumpet\ncall, while blue calms and cools, and if red is preferred to\nblue, it is because a sharp stimulation is so felt, and so\npreferred.\n\n<1> Ch. Fere, _Sensation et Mouvement_, 1887, p. 80.\n\nThe question of the demands of the eye in color combination is\nstill more complicated.  It has been traditional to consider\nthe complementaries black-white, red-green, blue-yellow, and\nthe other pairs resulting from the mixtures of these as the\nbest combinations.  The physiological explanation is of course\nfound in the relief and refreshment to the organs in successive\nalternation of the processes of assimilation and dissimilation,\nand objectively in the reinforcement, through this stronger\nfunctioning of the retina, of the complementary colors\nthemselves.  This tendency to mutual aid is shown in the\nfamiliar experiment of fixating for some moments a colored\nobject, say red, and then transferring the gaze to a white or\ngray expanse.  The image of the object appears thereon in the\ncomplementary green.  Per contra, the most complete lack of\ncontrast makes the most unpleasing combination, because instead\nof a refreshing alternation of processes in the retina, a\nfatiguing repetition results.  Red and orange (red-yellow), or\nred and purple (red-blue), successively stimulate the red-\nprocess with most evil effect.\n\nThis contrast theory should, however, not be interpreted too\nnarrowly.  There are pairs of so-called complementaries which\nmake a very crude, harsh, even painful impression.  The theory\nis happily supplemented by showing<1> that the ideal combination\ninvolves all three contrast factors, hue, saturation, and\nbrightness.  Contrast of saturation or brightness within the\nsame hue is also pleasant.  For any two qualities of the color\ncircle, in fact, there can be found degrees of saturation and\nbrightness in which they will form an agreeable combination,\nand this pleasing effect will be based on some form of contrast.\nBut the absolute and relative extension and the space-form of\nthe components have also a great influence on the pleasurableness\nof combinations.\n\n<1> A. Kirschmann, \"Die psychol.-aesthet. Bedeutung des Licht\nund Farbencontrastes,\" _Philos. Studien_, vol. vii.\n\nFurther rules can hardly be given; but the results of various\nobservers<1> seem to show that the best combinations lie, as\nalready said, among the complementaries, or among those pairs\nnearer together in the color circle than complementaries, which\nare \"warmer.\"  The reason for this last is that, in Chevreul's\nphraseology, combinations of cold colors change each other's\npeculiar hue the most, and of warm colors the least; because\nthe complementaries of these cold colors are \"warm,\" i.e.\nbright, and each, appearing on the field of the neighboring\ncold color, seems to fade it out; while the complementaries\nof the juxtaposed warm colors are not bright, and do not have\nsufficient strength to affect their neighbors at all.  With a\ncombination of blue and green for instance, a yellow shade\nwould appear in the green and a red in the blue.  Such a\nresult fails to satisfy the demand, already touched on, for\npurity and homogeneity of color,--that is, for unimpeded seeing\nof color.\n\n<1> Chevreul, _De la Loi du Contraste Simultane des Couleurs_.\nE.S. Banker, op. Cit.\n\nWhat significance have these abstract principles of beauty in\nthe combination of colors for representative art?  In the\nchoice of objects with a definite local color, of course, these\nlaws will be found operative.  A scheme of blues and yellows\nis likely to be more effective than one of reds and violets.\nIf we analyze the masterpiece of coloring, we shall find that\nwhat we at first supposed to be the wonderful single effects of\ncolor is really the result of juxtapositions which bring out\neach color to its highest power.\n\n\nIII\n\nWhile all this may be true, however, the most important question\nhas not yet been asked.  Is truth of color in representative art\nthe same thing as beauty of color?  It might be said that the\nwhole procedure of the so-called Impressionist school, in fact\nthe whole trend of the modern treatment of color, took their\nidentity for granted.  Yet we must discriminate.  Truth of color\nmay be truth to the local color of the given objects, alone or\ntogether; in this case we should have to say that beauty did or\ndid not exist in the picture, according as it did or did not\nexist in the original combination.  A red hat on a purple chair\nwould set one's teeth on edge, in model or picture.  Secondly,\ntruth of color may be truth to the modifications of the\nenveloping light, and in this case truth would make for beauty.\nFor the colors of any given scene are in general not colors\nwhich the objects themselves, if isolated, would have, but the\ncolors which the eye itself is forced to see.  The bluish\nshadow of an object in bright sunlight (yellowish light) is only\nan expression of the law that in the neighborhood of a colored\nobject we see its complementary color.  If such an effect is\nreproduced in a picture, it gives the same relief to the eye\nwhich the original effect showed the need of.  The eye fatigued\nwith yellow sees blue; so if the blue is really supplied in the\npicture, it is not only true, but on the road to beauty, because\nmeting the eye's demand.  The older methods of painting gave the\nlocal color of an object, with an admixture of white for the\nlights, and a warm dark for the shadows; the modern--which had\nbeen touched on, indeed, sporadically, by Perugino and Vermeer,\nfor instance,--gives in the shadow the complementary color of\nthe object combined with that of the light falling upon it--all\nconditions of favorable stimulation.\n\nFurther favorable stimulation of the eye is given in the method\nof the Impressionists in treating \"values,\" that is, comparative\nrelations of light and shade.  The real tones of objects\nincluding the sky, light, etc., can never be reproduced.  The\nolder schools, conscious of this, were satisfied to paint in a\nscale of correspondence, in which the relative values were\nfairly kept.  But even by that means, the great differences of\nintensity could not be given, for the brightest spot of any\npainting is never more than sixty-six times brighter than the\ndarkest, while the gray sky on a dull rainy day is four hundred\nand twenty times brighter than a white painted cross-bar of a\nwindow seen against the sky as background.<1>  There were\nvarious ways of combating this difficulty.  Rembrandt, for\ninstance, as Kirschmann tells us, chose the sombre brown tone,\n\"not out of caprice or an inclination for mystic dreaming\n(Fromentin), but because the yellow and orange side of the\ncolor-manifold admits of the greatest number of intervals\nbetween full saturation and the darkest shade.\"  The precursors\nof the Impressionists, on the other hand, succeeded in painting\nabsolute values, confining themselves to a very limited gamut;\nfor this reason the first landscapes of the school were all\ngray-green, dull, cloudy.  But Monet did not stop there.  He\npainted the ABSOLUTE VALUES of objects IN SHADE on a sunny day,\nwhich of course demands the brightest possibilities of the\npalette, and got the lighted objects themselves as nearly as\nhe could,--thus destroying the relative values, but getting an\nextraordinary joyous and glowing effect; and one, too, of\nunexpected verisimilitude, for it would seem that in a sunlit\nscene we are really attentive to the shaded objects alone, and\nwhat becomes of the others does not so much matter.  This effect\nwas made still more possible by the so-called dissociation of\ncolors,--i.e. the juxtaposing of tints, the blending of which\nby the eye gives the desired color, without the loss of\nbrightness which a mixing of pigments would involve.  Thus by\nputting touches of black and white side by side, for instance,\na gray results much brighter than could have been otherwise\nreached by mixing; or blue and red spots are blended by the\neye to an extraordinarily vivid purple.  Thus, by these\nmethods, using the truth of color in the sense of following\nthe nature of retinal functioning, Monet and his followers\nraised the color scale many degrees in brightness.  Now we\nhave seen that the eye loves light, warmth, strong color-effects,\nrelated to each other in the way that the eye must see them.\nImpressionism, as the name of the method just described, makes\nit more possible than it had been before to meet the demands\nof the eye for light and color, to recover \"the innocence of\nthe eye,\" in Ruskin's phrase.  Truth to the local color of\nobjects is relatively indifferent, unless that color is\nbeautiful in itself; truth to the reciprocal relations and\nchanges of hue is beauty, because it allows for the eye's own\nadaptations of its surroundings in the interest of its own\nfunctioning.  Thus in this case, and to sum up, truth is\nsynonymous with beauty, in so far as beauty is constituted by\nfavorable stimulation of an organ.  The further question, how\nfar this vivid treatment of light is of importance for the\nrealization of depth and distance, is not here entered on.\n\n<1> Kirschmann, _Univ. of Toronto Studies, Psychol. Series_ No.\n4, p. 20.\n\n\nIV\n\nThe moment we touch upon line-form we are already, in strictness,\nbeyond the elements.  For with form enters the motor factor,\nwhich cannot be separated from the motor innervations of the\nwhole body.  It is possible, however, to abstract for the moment\nfrom the form as a unit, and to consider here only what may be\ncalled the quality of line.  A line may be straight or broken,\nand if curved, curving continuously or brokenly, etc.  That\nthis quality of line is distinct from form may be shown by the\nsimple experiment of turning a spiral--a logarithmic spiral,\nlet us say--in different ways about its focus.  The aesthetic\neffect of the figure is absolutely different in the different\npositions, and yet the feeling about the character of the line\nitself seems to remain the same.  In what sense, and for what\nreasons, does this curved line satisfy the demands of the eye?\nThe discussion of this question precipitates us at once into\none of the burning controversies of aesthetics, which may\nperhaps best be dealt with at this point.\n\nAn early answer to the question would have been, that the eye\nis so hung in its muscles as to move most easily in curved\nlines, and this easy action in following the curve is felt as\nfavorable stimulation.  But recent experiment<1> has shown\nthat the eye in fact moves by most irregular, angular leaps\nfrom point to point of the figure.  The theory is therefore\nremodeled by substituting for the movement sensations of the\neye, the tendencies corresponding to those early movements of\ntouching imitative of the form, by which we learned to know a\nform for what it is, and the reproduction of feeling-tones\nbelonging to the character of such movement.  The movements\nof touching and feeling for a smooth continuous curved object\nare themselves pleasant.  This complex of psychical factors\nmakes a pleasurably stimulating experience.  The greater the\ntendency to complete reproduction of these movements, that is,\nthe stronger the \"bodily resonance,\" the more vivid the pleasure.\nWhether we (with Groos) designate this as sympathetic reproduction,\nor (with Lipps) attribute to the figure the movements and the\nfeelings which resound in us after this fashion, or even (with\nWitasek) insist on the purely ideal character of the reproduction,\nseems to me not essential to the explanation of the pleasing\ncharacter of the experience, and hence of the beauty of the\nobject.  Not THAT we sympathetically reproduce (\"Miterleben\"),\nor \"feel ourselves into\" a form (\"Einfuhlen\"), but HOW we do so,\nis the question.\n\n<1> G.M. Stratton, _Philos. Studies_, xx.\n\nAll that Hogarth says of the beauty of the serpentine line, as\n\"leading the eye a kind of chase,\" is fully in harmony with this\nview, if we add to the exploiting movements of the eyes those\nother more important motor innervations of the body.  But we\nshould still have to ask, WHAT kind of chase?  Sharp, broken,\nstarting lines might be the basis of a much more vivid experience,\n--but it would be aesthetically negative.  \"The complete sensuous\nexperience of the spatial\" is not enough, unless that experience\nis positively, that is, favorably toned.  Clear or vivid seeing\nmade possible by the form of the object is not enough.  Only as\nFAVORABLY stimulating, that is, only as calling up ideal\nreproductions, or physical imitations, of movements which in\nthemselves were suited to the functions of the organs involved,\ncan forms be found positively aesthetic, that is, beautiful.\n\nMoreover, we have to note here, and to emphasize, that the\norgans involved are more than the eye, as has already been made\nplain.  We cannot separate eye innvervations from bodily\ninnervations in general.  And therefore \"the demands of the eye\"\ncan never alone decide the question of the beauty of visual\nform.  If it were not so, the favorable stimulation combined\nwith repose of the eye would alone make the conditions of\nbeauty.  The \"demands of the eye\" must be interpreted as the\ndemands of the eye plus the demands of the motor system,--the\nwhole psychophysical personality, in short.\n\nIt is in these two principles,--\"bodily resonance,\" and favorable\nas opposed to energetic functioning,--and these alone, that we\nhave a complete refutation of the claim made by many artists\nto-day, that the phrase \"demands of the eye\" embodies a complete\naesthetic theory.  The sculptor Adolph Hildebrand, in his\n\"Problem of Form in the Plastic Art\" first set it forth as the\ntask of the artist \"to find a form which appears to have arisen\nonly from the demands of the eye;\"<1> and this doctrine is\nto-day so widely held, that it must here be considered at some\nlength.\n\n<1> _Das Proablem der form in d. bildenden Kunst_, 1897.\n\nIt is the space-form, all that is seen, and not the object itself,\nthat is the object of vision.  Now in viewing a plastic object\nnear at hand, the focus of the eye must be constantly changed\nbetween the nearer and further points.  In a more distant view,\non the other hand (Hildebrand's \"Fernbild\"), the contour is\ndenoted by differences of light and shadow, but it is nevertheless\nperceived in a single act of accommodation.  Moreover, being\ndistant, the muscles of accommodation are relaxed; the eye acts\nat rest.  The \"Fernbild\" thus gives the only unified picture of\nthe three-dimensional complex, and hence the only unity of space-\nvalues.  In the perception of this unity, the author holds,\nconsists the essential pleasure which the work of art gives us.\nHildebrand's treatment is difficult, and lends itself to varying\ninterpretations, which have laid stress now on unity as the\nessential of art,<1> now on \"the joy in the complete sensuous\nexperience of the spatial.\"<2>  The latter seems in harmony with\nthe passage in which Hildebrand says \"all pleasure in Form is\npleasure in our not being obliged to create this clearness for\nourselves, in its being created for us, nay, even forced upon\nus, by the form itself.\"\n\n<1> A. Riehl, _Vierteljahrschr. f. wissenensch. Philos._, xxi,\nxxii.\n<2> K. Groos, _Der Aesthetische Genuss_, 1902, p. 17.\n\nBut supposing the first interpretation correct:  supposing\nspace-unity, conditioned by the unified and reposeful act of\nseeing, to be the beauty we seek--it is at once clear that the\nreduction of three dimensions to two does not constitute unity\neven for the eye alone; how much less for the motor system of\nthe whole body, which we have seen must be involved.  Hildebrand's\n\"demands of the eye\" resolves itself into the stimulation plus\nrepose of the ciliary muscle,--the organ of accommodation.  A\nreal unity even for the eye alone would have to include not\nonly space relations in the third dimension, but relations of\nline and mass and color in the flat.  As for the \"complete\nsensuous experience of the spatial\" (which would seem to be\nequivalent to Berenson's \"tactile values\"), the \"clearness\" of\nHildebrand's sentence above quoted, it is evident that\ncompleteness of the experience does not necessarily involve\nthe positive or pleasurable toning of the experience.  The\ndistinction is that between a beautiful and a completely\nrealistic picture.\n\nA further extension or restatement of this theory, in a recent\narticle,<1> seems to me to express it in the most favorable\nway.  Beauty is again connected with the functioning of our\norgans of perception (Auffassungorgane).  \"We wish to be put\ninto a fresh, lively, energetic and yet at the same time\neffortless activity....  The pleasure in form is a pleasure\nin this, that the conformation of the object makes possible\nor rather compels a natural purposeful functioning of our\napprehending organs.\"  But purposeful for what?  For visual\nform, evidently to the end of seeing clearly.  The element of\nrepose, of unity, hinted at in the \"effortless\" of the first\nsentence, disappears in the second.  The organs of apprehension\nare evidently limited to the eye alone.  It is not the perfect\nmoment of stimulation and repose for the whole organism which\nis aimed at, but the complete sensuous experience of the\nspatial, again.\n\n<1> Th. A. Meyer, \"Das Formprinzip des Schouen,\" _Archiv. f.\nPhil._, Bd. x.\n\nHildebrand, to return to the more famous theorist, was writing\nprimarily of sculpture, and would naturally confine himself to\nconsideration of the plastic, which is an additional reason\nagainst making this interesting brochure, as some have done,\nthe foundation of an aesthetics.  It is rather the foundation\nof the sculptor's, perhaps even of the painter's technique,\nwith reference to plastic elements alone.  What it contains\nof universal significance, the demand for space-unity, based\non the state of the eye in a union of rest and action, ignores\nall but one of the possible sources of rest and action for\nthe eye, that of accommodation, and all the allied activities\ncompletely.\n\nOn the basis of the favorable stimulations of all these\nactivities taken together, must we judge as pleasing the so-\ncalled quality of line.  But it is clear that we cannot really\nseparate the question of quality of line from that of form,\nfigure, and arrangement in space.  The motor innervations\nenter with the first, and the moment we have form at all, we\nhave space-composition also.  But space-composition means\nunity, and unity is the objective quality which must be\ntranslated, in our investigations, into aesthetic repose.  It\nis thus with the study of composition that we pass from the\nstudy of the elements as favorably stimulating, to the study\nof the beauty of visual form.\n\n\nV\n\nWe may begin by asking what, as a matter of fact, has been the\narrangement of spaces to give aesthetic pleasure.  The primitive\nart of all nations shows that it has taken the direction of\nsymmetry about a vertical line.  It might be said that this is\nthe result of non-aesthetic influences, such as convenience of\nconstruction, technique, etc.  <1>It is clear that much of the\nsymmetry appearing in primitive art is due (1) to the conditions\nof construction, as in the form of dwellings, binding patterns,\nweaving and textile patterns generally; (2) to convenience in\nuse, as in the shapes of spears, arrows, knives, two-handled\nbaskets or jars; (3) to the imitation of animal forms, as in\nthe shapes of pottery, etc.  On the other hand, (1) a very\ngreat deal of symmetrical ornament maintains itself AGAINST the\nsuggestions of the shape to which it is applied, as the\nornaments of baskets, pottery, and all rounded objects; and\n(2) all distortion, disintegration, degradation of pattern-\nmotives, often so marked as all but to destroy their meaning,\nis in the direction of geometrical symmetry.  The early art of\nall civilized nations shows the same characteristic.  Now it\nmight be said that, as there exists an instinctive tendency to\nimitate visual forms by motor impulses, the impulses suggested\nby the symmetrical form are in harmony with the system of\nenergies of our bilateral organism, which is a system of double\nmotor innervations, and thus fulfill our demand for a set of\nreactions corresponding to the organism as a whole.  But we\nshould then expect that all space arrangements which deviate\nfrom complete symmetry, and thus suggest motor impulses which\ndo not correspond to the natural bilateral type, would fail to\ngive aesthetic pleasure.  Such, however, is not the case.  Non-symmetrical arrangements of space are often extremely pleasing.\n\n<1> The following is adapted from the author's _Studies in\nSymmetry, Harvard Psych. Studies_, vol i, 1902.\n\nThis contradiction disappears if we are able to show that the\napparently non-symmetrical arrangement contains a hidden\nsymmetry, and that all the elements of that arrangement\ncontribute to bring about just that bilateral type of motor\nimpulses which is characteristic of geometrical symmetry.\n\nA series of experiments was arranged, in which one of two\nunequal lines of white on a black background being fixed in\nan upright position a certain distance from the centre, the\nother was shifted until the arrangement was felt to be pleasing.\nIt was found that when two lines of different sizes were opposed,\ntheir relative positions corresponded to the relation of the\narms of a balance, that is, a small line far from the centre\nwas opposed by a large one near the centre.  A line pointing\nout from the centre fitted this formula if taken as \"heavy,\"\nand pointing in, if taken as \"light.\"  Similarly, objects of\nintrinsic interest and objects suggesting depth in the third\ndimension were \"heavy\" in the same interpretation.  All this,\nhowever, did not go beyond the proof that all pleasing space-\narrangements can be described in terms of mechanical balance.\nBut what was this mechanical balance?  A metaphor explains\nnothing, and no one will maintain that the visual representation\nof a long line weights more than a short one.  Moreover, the\nelements in the balance were so far heterogeneous.  The\nmovement suggested by an idea had been treated as if equivalent\nto the movement actually made by the eye in following a long\nline; the intrinsic interest--that is, the ideal interest--of\nan object insignificant in form was equated to the attractive\npower of a perspective, which has, presumably, a merely\nphysiological effect on the visual mechanism.\n\nI believe, however, that the justification of this apparent\nheterogeneity, and the basis for explanation, is given in the\nreduction of all elements to their lowest term,--as objects\nfor the expenditure of attention.  A large object and an\n\"interesting\" object are \"heavy\" for the same reason, because\nthey call out the attention.  And expenditure of effort is\nexpenditure of attention; thus, if an object on the outskirts\nof the field of vision requires a wide sweep of the eye to take\nit in, it demands the expenditure of attention, and so is felt\nas \"heavy.\"  But what is \"the expenditure of attention\" in\nphysiological terms?  It is nothing more than the measure of\nthe motor impulses directed to the object of attention.  And\nwhether the motor impulse appears as the tendency to follow\nout the suggestions of motion in the object, all reduces to\nthe same physiological basis.\n\nIt may here be objected that our motor impulses are, nevertheless,\nstill heterogeneous, inasmuch as some are toward the object of\ninterest, and some along the line of movement.  But it must be\nsaid, first, that these are not felt in the body, but transferred\nas values of weight to points in the picture,--it is the amount\nand not the direction of excitement that is counted; and secondly,\nthat even if it were not so, the suggested movement along a line\nis felt as \"weight\" at a particular point.\n\nFrom this point of view the justification of the metaphor of\nmechanical balance is quite clear.  Given two lines, the most\npleasing arrangement makes the larger nearer the centre, and\nthe smaller far from it.  This is balanced because the spontaneous\nimpulse of attention to the near, large line equals in amount\nthe involuntary expenditure to apprehend the small, farther one.\n\nWe may thus think of a space to be composed as a kind of target,\nin which certain spots or territories count more or less, both\naccording to their distance from the centre and according to what\nfills them.  Every element of a picture, in whatever way it gains\npower to excite motor impulses, is felt as expressing that power\nin the flat pattern.  A noble vista is understood and enjoyed as\na vista, but it is COUNTED in the motor equation, our \"balance,\"\nas a spot of so much intrinsic value at such and such a distance\nfrom the centre.  The skillful artist will fill his target in the\nway to give the maximum of motor impulses with the perfection of\nbalance between them.\n\nIt is thus in a kind of substitutional symmetry, or balance, that\nwe have the objective condition or counterpart of aesthetic\nrepose, or unity.  From this point of view it is clearly seen in\nwhat respect the unity of Hildebrand fails.  He demands in the\nstatue, especially, but also in the picture, the flat surface as\na unity for the three dimensions.  But it is only with the flat\nspace, won, if you will, by Hildebrand's method, that the problem\nbegins.  Every point in the third dimension counts, as has been\nsaid, in the flat.  The Fernbild is the beginning of beauty, but\nwithin the Fernbild favorable stimulation and repose must still\nbe sought.  And repose or unity is given by symmetry, subjectively\nthe balance of attention, inasmuch as this balance is a tension\nof antagonistic impulses, an equilibrium, and thus an inhibition\nof movement.\n\nFrom this point of view, we are in a position to refute Souriau's\ninteresting analysis<1> of form as the condition for the\nappreciation of content.  He says that form, in a picture for\ninstance, has its value in its power to produce (through its\nfixation and concentration of the eye) a mild hypnosis, in which,\nas is well known, all suggestions come to us with bewildering\nvividness.  This is, then, just the state in which the contents\nof the picture can most vividly impress themselves.  Form, then,\nas the means to content, by giving the conditions for suggestion,\nis Sourieau's account of it.  In so far as form--in the sense\nof unity--gives, through balance and equilibrium of impulses,\nthe arrest of the personality, it may indeed be compared with\nhypnotism.  But this arrest is not only a means, but an end in\nitself; that aesthetic repose, which, as the unity of the\npersonality, is an essential element of the aesthetic emotion\nas we have described it.\n\n<1> _La Suggestion en l'Art_.\n\n\nVI\n\nThere is no point of light or color, no contour, no line, no\ndepth, that does not contribute to the infinite complex which\ngives the maximum of experience with the minimum of effort and\nwhich we call beauty of form.  But yet there is another way of\nviewing the beautiful object, on which we touched in the\nintroduction to this chapter.  So far, what we see is only\nanother name for HOW we see; and the way of seeing has proved\nto contain enough to bring to stimulation and repose the\npsychophysical mechanism.  But now we must ask, what relation\nhas meaning to beauty?  Is it an element, coordinate with others,\nor something superposed? or is it an end in itself, the supreme\nend?  What relation to the beauty of form has that quality of\ntheir works by virtue of which Rembrandt is called a dreamer,\nand Rodin a poet in stone?  What do we mean when we speak of\nSargent as a psychologist?  Is it a virtue to be a poet in\nstone?  If it is, we must somehow include in our concept of\nBeauty the element of expression, by showing how it serves the\ninfinite complex.  Or is it not an aesthetic virtue, and Rodin\nis great artist and poet combined, and not great artist because\npoet, as some would say?  What is the relation of the objective\ncontent to beauty of form?  In short, what place has the idea\nin Beauty?\n\nIn the preceding the place of separate objects which have only\nan ideal importance has been made clear.  The gold-embroidered\ngauntlet in a picture counts as a patch of light, a trend of\nline, in a certain spot; but it counts more there, because it\nis of interest for itself, and by thus counting more, the idea\nhas entered into the spatial balance,--the idea has become\nitself form.  Now it is the question whether all \"idea,\" which\nseems so heterogeneous in its relation to form, does not undergo\nthis transmutation.  It is at least of interest to see whether\nthe facts can be so interpreted.\n\nWe have spoken of ideas a parts of an aesthetic whole.  What of\nthe idea of the whole?  Corot used to say he painted a dream,\nand it is the dream of an autumn morning we see in his pictures.\nMillet portrays the sad majesty and sweetness of the life near\nthe soil.  How must we relate these facts to the views already\nwon?\n\nIt has often been said that the view which makes the element of\nform for the eye alone, in the strictest sense, is erroneous,\nbecause there is no form for the eye alone.  The very process\nof apprehending a line involves not only motor memories and\nimpulses, but numberless ideal associations, and these\nassociations constitute the line as truly as do the others.  The\nimpression of the line involves expression, a meaning which we\ncannot escape.  The forms of things constitute a kind of dialect\nof life,--and thus it is that the theory of Einfuhlung in its\ndeepest sense is grounded.  The Doric column causes in us, no\ndoubt, motor impulses, but it means, and must mean, to us, the\nexpression of internal energy through those very impulses it\ncauses.  \"We ourselves are contracting our muscles, but we\nfeel as if the lines were pulling and piercing, bending and\nlifting, pressing down and pushing up; in short, as soon as the\nvisual impression is really isolated, and all other ideas really\nexcluded, then the motor impulses do not awake actions which are\ntaken as actions of ourselves, but feelings of energy which are\ntaken as energies of the visual forms and lines.\"<1>  So the\nidea belonging to the object, and the psychophysical effect of\nthe object are only obverse and inverse of the same phenomenon.\nAnd our pleasure in the form of the column is rather our\nappreciation of energy than our feeling of favorable stimulation.\nAdmitting this reasoning, the meaning of a picture would be the\nsame as its beauty, it is said.  The heroic art of J.-F. Millet,\nfor example, would be beautiful because it is the perfect\nexpression of the simplicity and suffering of labor.\n\n<1> H. Munsterberg, _The Principles of Art Education_, p. 87.\n\nLet us examine this apparently reasonable theory.  It is true\nthat every visual element is understood as expression too.  It\nis not true, however, that expression and impression are parallel\nand mutually corresponding beyond the elements.  Suppose a\nconcourse of columns covered by a roof,--the Parthenon.  Those\npsychophysical changes induced by the sight now mutually check\nand modify each other.  Can we say that there is a \"meaning,\"\nlike the energy of the column, corresponding to that complex?\nIt is at least not energy itself.  Ask the same as regards the\nlines and masses of a picture by Corot.  In the sense in which\nwe have taken \"meaning,\" the only psychologically possible one,\nour reactions could be interpreted only by some mood.  If the\ncolumn means energy because it makes us tower, then the picture\nmust mean what it makes us do.  That is, a combination of\nfeathery fronds and horizontal lines of water, bathed in a gray-\ngreen silvery mist, can \"mean\" only a repose lightened by a\ngrave yet cheerful spirit.  In short, this theory of\nexpressiveness cannot go beyond the mood or moral quality.  In\nthe sense of INFORMATION, the theory of Einfuhlung contributes\nnothing.  Now, in this limited sense, we have indeed no reason\nto contradict it, but simply to point out that it holds only\nin this extremely limited sense.  When we see broad sweeping\nlines we interpret them by sympathetic reproduction as strength,\nenergy.  When those sweeping lines are made part of a Titan's\nframe, we get the same effect plus the associations which belong\nto distinctively muscular energy.  Those same lines might define\nthe sweep of a drapery, or the curve of an infant's limbs.  Now\nall that part of the meaning which belongs to the lines\nthemselves remains constant under whatever circumstances; and\nit is quite true that a certain feeling-tone, a certain moral\nquality, as it were, belongs, say, to Raphael's pictures, in\nwhich this kind of outline is to be found.  But as belonging to\na Titan, the additional elements of understanding are not due\nto sympathetic reproduction.  They are not parallel with the\nmotor suggestions; they are simply an associational addition,\ndue to our information about the power of men with muscles\nlike that.  That there are secondary motor elements as a\nreverberation of these ideal elements need not be denied.  But\nthey are not directly due to the form.  Now such part of our\nresponse to a picture as is directly induced by the form, we\nhave a right to include in the aesthetic experience.  It will,\nhowever, in every work of art of even the least complexity,\nbe expressible only as a mood, very indefinite, often\nindescribable.  To make this \"meaning,\" then, the essential\naim of a picture seems unreasonable.\n\nIt is evident that in experience we do not, as a matter of\nfact, separate the mood which is due to sympathy from the\nideal content of the picture.  Corot paint a summer dawn.\nWe cannot separate our pleasure in the sight from our pleasure\nin the understanding; yet it is the visual complex that gives\nus the mood, and the meaning of the scene is due to factors\nof association.  The \"serene and happy dream,\" the \"conviction\nof a solemn and radiant Arcadia,\" are not \"expression\" in that\ninevitable sense in which we agreed to take it, but the result\nof a most extended upbuilding of ideal (that is, associational)\nelements.\n\nThe \"idea,\" then, as we have propounded it, is not, as was\nthought possible, an integral and essential part, but an\naddition to the visual form, and we have still to ask what is\nits value.  But in so far as it is an addition, its effect\nmay be in conflict with what we may call the feeling-tone\nproduced by sympathetic reproduction.  In that case, one must\nyield to the other.  Now it is not probably that even the most\nconvinced adherents of the expression theory would hold that\nif expression or beauty MUST go, expression should be kept.\nThey only say that expression IS beauty.  But the moment it is\nadmitted that there is a beauty of form independent of the\nideal element, this theory can no longer stand.  If there is\na conflict, the palm must be given to the direct, rather than\nthe indirect, factor. Indeed, when there is such a conflict,\nthe primacy must always be with the medium suited to the organ,\nthe sensuous factor.  For if it were not so, and expression\nWERE beauty, then that would have to be most beautiful which\nwas most expressive.  And even if we disregard the extraordinary\nconclusions to which this would lead,--the story pictures\npreferred to those without a story, the photographic reproductions\npreferred to the symphonies of color and form,--we should be\nobliged to admit something still more incendiary.  Expression\nis always of an ideal content, is of something to express; and\nit is unquestioned that in words, and in words alone, can we\nget nearest to the inexpressible.  Then literature, as being\nthe most expressive, would be the highest art, and we should be\nconfronted with a hierarchy of arts, from that down.\n\nNow, in truth, the real lover of beauty knows that no one art\nis superior to another.  \"Each in his separate star,\" they reign\nalone.  In order to be equal, they must depend on their material,\nnot on that common quality of imaginative thought which each has\nin a differing degree, and all less than literature.\n\nThe idea, we conclude, is then indeed subordinate,--a by-product,\nunless by chance it can enter into, melt into, the form.  This\ncase we have clearest in the example, already referred to, of\nthe gold-embroidered gauntlet, or the jeweled chalice,--say the\nHoly Grail in Abbey's pictures,--which counts more or less, in\nthe spatial balance, according to its intrinsic interest.\n\nWe have seen that through sympathetic reproduction a certain\nmood is produced, which becomes a kind of emotional envelope\nfor the picture,--a favorable stimulation of the whole, a\nraising of the whole harmony one tone, as it were.  Now the\nfurther ideal content of the picture may so closely belong to\nthis basis that it helps it along.  Thus all that we know about\ndawn--not only of a summer morning--helps us to see, and seeing\nto rejoice, in Corot's silvery mist or Monet's iridescent\nshimmers.  All that we know and feel about the patient majesty\nof labor in the fields, next the earth, helps us to get the\nslow, large rhythm, the rich gloom of Millet's pictures.  But\nit is the rhythm and the gloom that are the beauty, and the\nidea reinforces our consciousness thereof.  The idea is a\nsounding-board for the beauty, and so can be truly said to\nenter into the form.\n\nBut there are still some lions in the path of our theory.  The\ngreatest of modern sculptors is reputed to have reached his\npresent altitude by the passionate pursuance of Nature, and of\nthe expressions of Nature.  And few can see Rodin's work\nwithout being at once in the grip of the emotion or fact he\nhas chosen to depict.  A great deal of contemporary criticism\non modern tendencies in art rests on the intention of\nexpression, and expression alone, attributed to him.  It is\nsaid of him:  \"The solicitude for ardent expression overmasters\nevery aesthetic consideration....  He is a poet with stone as\nhis instrument of expression.  He makes it express emotions\nthat are never found save in music or in psychological and\nlyric literature.\"<1>\n\n<1> C. Mauclair, \"The Decorative Sculpture of August Rodin,\"\n_International Monthly_, vol iii.\n\nNow while the last is undoubtedly true, I believe that the\nfirst is not only not true, but that it is proved to be so by\nRodin's own procedure and utterances, and that, if we understand\nhis case aright, it is for beauty alone that he lives.  He has\nrelated his search for the secret of Michael Angelo's design,\nand how he found it in the rhythm of two planes rather than four,\nthe Greek composition.  This system of tormented form is one way\nof referring the body to the geometry of an imagined rectangular\nblock inclosing the whole.\n\n<1>\"The ordinary Greek composition of the body, he puts it,\ndepends on a rhythm of four lines, four volumes, four planes.\nIf the line of the shoulders and pectorals slopes from right\nto left (the man resting on his right leg) the line across the\nhips takes the reverse slope, and is followed by that of the\nknees, while the line of the first echoes that of the shoulders.\nThus we get the rhythm ABBA, and the balancing volumes set up\na corresponding play of planes.  Michael Angelo so turns the\nbody on itself that he reduces the four to two big planes, one\nfacing, the other swept round to the side of the block.\"  That\nis, he gets geometrical enveloping lines for his design.  And,\nin fact, there is no sculpture which is more wonderful in\ndesign than Rodin's.  I quote Mr. MacColl again.  \"It has been\nsaid that the 'Bourgeois de Calais' is a group of single\nfigures, possessing no unity of design, or at best affording\nonly a single point of view.  Those who say so have never\nexamined it with attention.  The way in which these figures\nmove among themselves, as the spectator walks round, so as to\nproduce from every fresh angle sweeping commanding lines, each\nof them thus playing a dozen parts at once, is surely one of\nthe most astounding feats of the genius of design.  Nothing in\nthe history of art is exactly comparable with it.\"\n\n<1> D. S. MacColl, _Nineteenth Century Art_, 1902, p. 101.\n\nIn short, it is the design, for all his words, that Rodin cares\nfor.  He calls it Nature, because he sees, and can see Nature\nonly that way.  But as he said to some one who suggested that\nthere might be a danger in too close devotion to Nature, \"Yes,\nfor a mediocre artist!\"  It is for the sake of the strange new\nbeauty, \"the unedited poses,\" \"the odd beautiful huddle<1> of\nlines,\" in a stopping or squatting form, that all these wild\nand subtle moments are portrayed.  The limbs must be adjusted\nor surprised in some pattern beyond their own.  The ideas are\nthe occasion and the excuse for new outlines,--that is all.\n\n<1> Said of Degas.  MacColl.\n\nThis is all scarcely less true of Millet, whom we have known\nabove all as the painter who has shown the simple common lot\nof labor as divine.  But he, too, is artist for the sake of\nbeauty first.  He sees two peasant women, one laden with grass,\nthe other with fagots.  \"From far off, they are superb, they\nbalance their shoulders under the weight of fatigue, the\ntwilight swallows their forms.  It is beautiful, it is great\nas a myster.\"<1>\n\n<1> Sensier, _Vie et Oeuvre de J.-F. Millet_.\n\nThe idea is, as I said, from this point of view, a means to\nnew beauty; and the stranger and subtler the idea, the more\noriginal the forms.  The more unrestrained the expression of\nemotion in the figures, the more chance to surprise them in\nsome new lovely pattern.  It is thus, I believe, that we may\ninterpret the seeming trend of modern sculpture, and so much,\nindeed, of all modern art, to the \"expressive beauty\" path.\n\"The mediocre artist\" will lose beauty in seeking expression,\nthe great artist will pursue his idea for the sake of the\nnew beauty it will yield.\n\nThus it seems that the stumbling blocks in the way of our\ntheory are not insurmountable after all.  From every point\nof view, it is seen to be possible to transmute the idea into\na helpmeet to the form.  Visual beauty is first beauty to the\neye and to the frame, and the mind cherishes and enriches\nthis beauty with all its own stored treasures.  The stimulation\nand repose of the psychophysical organism alone can make one\nthrill to visual form; but the thrill is deeper and more\nsatisfying if it engage the whole man, and be reinforced from\nall sources.\n\n\nVII\n\nBut we ought to note a borderland in which the concern is\nprofessedly not with beauty, but with ideas of life.  Aristotle's\nlover of knowledge, who rejoiced to say of a picture \"This is\nthat man,\" is the inspirer of drawing as opposed to the art of\nvisual form.\n\nIt is not beauty we seek from the Rembrandt and Durer of the\netchings and woodcuts, from Hogarth, Goya, Klinger, down to\nLeech and Keene and Du Maurier; it is not beauty, but ideas,--\ninformation, irony, satire, life-philosophy.  Where there is\na conflict, beauty, as we have defined it, goes to the wall.\nWe may trace, perhaps, the ground of this in the highly increased\namount of symbolic, associative power given, and required, in\nthe black and white.  Even to understand such a picture demands\nsuch an enormous amount of unconscious mental supplementation\nthat it is natural to find the aesthetic centre of gravity in\nthat element.\n\nThe first conditions of the work, that is, determine its trend\nand aim.  The part played by imagination in our vision of an\netching is and must be so important, that it is, after all, the\nimaginative part which outweighs the given.  Nor do we desire the\ngiven to infringe upon the ideal field.  Thus do we understand\nthat for most drawings a background vague and formless is the\ndesideratum.  \"Such a tone is the foil for psychological\nmoments, as they are handled by Goya, for instance, with\nbarbarically magnificent nakedness.  On a background which is\nscarcely indicated, with few strokes, which barely suggest\nspace, he impales like a butterfly the human type, mostly in a\nmoment of folly or wickedness....  The least definition of\nsurrounding would blunt his (the artist's) keenness, and make\nhis vehemence absurd.\"<1>\n\n<1> Max Klinger, _Malerei u. Zeichnung_, 1903, p. 42.\n\nThis theory of the aim of black and white is confirmed by the\nfact that while a painting is composed for the size in which it\nis painted, and becomes another picture if reproduced in another\nmeasure, the size of drawings is relatively indifferent; reduced\nor enlarged, the effect is approximately the same, because what\nis given to the eye is such a small proportion of the whole\nexperience.  The picture is only the cue for a complete structure\nof ideas.\n\nHere is a true case of Anders-Streben, that \"partial alienation\nfrom its own limitations, by which the arts are able, not indeed\nto supply the place of each other, but reciprocally to lend each\nother new forces.\"<1>  It is by its success as representation\nthat the art of the burin and needle--Griffelkunst, as Klinger\nnames it--ought first to be judged.  This is not saying that it\nmay not also possess beauty of form to a high degree,--only that\nthis beauty of form is not its characteristic excellence.\n\n<1> W. Pater, _The Renaissance: Essay on Giorgione_.\n\nIn what consists the beauty of visual form?  If this question\ncould be answered in a sentence our whole discussion of the\nabstract formula for beauty would have been unnecessary.  But\nsince we know what the elements of visual form must do to bring\nabout the aesthetic experience, it has been the aim of the\npreceding pages to show how those elements must be determined\nand related.  The eye, the psychophysical organism, must be\nfavorably stimulated; these, and such colors, combinations,\nlines as we have described, are fitted to do it.  It must be\nbrought to repose; these, and such relations between lines and\ncolors as we have set forth, are fitted to do it, for reasons\nwe have given.  It is to the eye and all that waits upon it\nthat the first and the last appeal of fine art must be made;\nand in so far as the emotion or the idea belonging to a\npicture or a statue waits upon the eye, in so far does it\nenter into the characteristic excellence, that is, the beauty\nof visual form.\n\n\nB.  SPACE COMPOSITION AMONG THE OLD MASTERS\n\nI\n\nTHE preceding pages have set forth the concrete facts of\nvisible beauty, and the explanation of our feelings about it.\nIt is also interesting, however, to see how these principles\nare illustrated and confirmed in the masterpieces of art.  A\nstatistical study, undertaken some years ago with the purpose\nof dealing thus with the hypothesis of substitutional symmetry\nin pictorial composition, has given abundance of material,\nwhich I shall set forth, at otherwise disproportionate length,\nas to a certain extent illustrative of the methods of such\nstudy.  It is clear that this is but one of many possible\ninvestigations in which the preceding psychological theories\nmay be further illuminated.  The text confines itself to\npictures; but the functions of the elements of visual form\nare valid as well for all visual art destined to fill a bounded\narea.  The discussion will then be seen to be only ostensibly\nlimited in its reference.  For picture might always be read\nspace arrangement within a frame.\n\nIn the original experimental study of space arrangements, the\nresults of which were given at length on page 111, the elements\nof form in a picture were reduced to SIZE or MASS, DEPTH in the\nthird dimension, DIRECTION, and INTEREST.  Direction was further\nanalyzed into direction of MOTION or ATTENTION (of persons or\nobjects in the picture), an ideal element, that is; and direction\nof LINE.  For the statistical study, a given picture was then\ndivided in half by an imaginary vertical line, and the elements\nappearing on each side of this line were set off against each\nother to see how far they lent themselves to description by\nsubstitutional symmetry.  Thus:  in B. van der Helst's \"Portrait\nof Paul Potter,\" the head of the subject is entirely to left\nof the central line, as also his full face and frontward glance.\nHis easel is right, his body turned sharply to right, and both\nhands, one holding palette and brushes, are stretched down to\nright.  Thus the greater mass is to the left, and the general\ndirection of line is to the right; elements of interest in the\nhead, left; in implements, right.  This may be schematized in\nthe equation (Lt.)M.+I.=(Rt.)I.+L.\n\nPieter de Hooch, \"The Card-Players,\" in Buckingham Palace,\nportrays a group completely on the right of the central line,\nall facing in to the table between them.  Directly behind them\nis a high light window, screened, and high on the wall to the\nextreme right are a picture and hanging cloaks.  All goes to\nemphasize the height, mass, and interest of the right side.\nOn the left, which is otherwise empty, is a door half the\nheight of the window, giving on a brightly lighted courtyard,\nfrom which is entering a woman, also in light clothing.  The\nlight streams in diagonally across the floor.  Thus, with all\nthe \"weight\" on the right, the effect of this deep vista on\nthe left and of its brightness is to give a complete balance,\nwhile the suggestion of line from doorway and light makes,\ntogether with the central figure, a roughly outlined V, which\nserves to bind together all the elements.  Equation, (Lt.)V.+I.\n=(Rt.)M.+I.\n\nThe thousand pictures on which the study was based<1> were\nclassified for convenience into groups,--Religious, Portrait,\nGenre, and Landscape.  It was found on analysis that the\nfunctions of the elements came out clearly, somewhat as follows.\n\n<1> One thousand reproductions of old masters from F. Bruckmann's\n_Classischer Bilderschatz_, Munich, omitting frescoes and\npictures of which less than the whole was given.\n\nOf the religious pictures, only the \"Madonnas Enthroned\" and\nother altar-pieces are considered at this point as presenting a\nsimple type, in which it is easy to show the variations from\nsymmetry.  In all these pictures the balance comes in between\nthe interest in the Infant Christ, sometimes together with\ndirection of attention to him, on one side, and other elements\non the other.  When the first side is especially \"heavy\" the\nnumber of opposing elements increases, and especially takes\nthe form of vista and line, which have been experimentally\nfound to be powerful in attracting attention.  Where there are\nno surrounding worshipers, we notice remarkable frequency in\nthe use of vista and line, and, in general, balance is brought\nabout through the disposition of form rather than of interests.\nThe reason for this would appear to be that the lack of\naccessories in the persons of saints, worshipers, etc., and\nthe consequent increase in the size of Madonna and Child in\nthe picture, heightens the effect of any given outline, and so\nmakes the variations from symmetry greater.  This being the\ncase, the compensations would be stronger; and as we have\nlearned that vista and line are of this character, we see why\nthey are needed.\n\nThe portrait class is an especially interesting object for\nstudy, inasmuch as while its general type is very simple and\nconstant, for this very reason the slightest variations are\nsharply felt, and have their very strongest characteristic\neffect.  The general type of the portrait composition is, of\ncourse, the triangle with the head at the apex, and this point\nis also generally in the central line; nevertheless, great\nrichness of effect is brought about by emphasizing variations.\nFor instance, the body and head are, in the great majority of\ncases, turned in the same way, giving the strongest possible\nemphasis to the direction of attention,--especially powerful,\nof course, where all the interest is in the personality.  But\nit is to be observed that the very strongest suggestion of\ndirection is given by the direction of the glance; and in no\ncase, when most of the other elements are directed in one way,\ndoes the glance fail to come backward.  With the head on one\nside of the central line, of course the greatest interest is\nremoved to one side, and the element of direction is brought\nin to balance.  Again, with this decrease in symmetry, we see\na significant increase in the use of the especially effective\nelements, vista and line.  In fact, the use of the small deep\nvista is almost confined to the class with heads not in the\nmiddle.  The direction of the glance also plays an important\npart.  Very often the direction of movement alone is not\nsufficient to balance the powerful M.+I. of the other side,\nand the eye has to be attracted by a definite object of interest.\nThis is usually the hand, with or without an implement,--like\nthe palette, etc., of our first examples,--or a jewel, vase,\nor bit of embroidery.  This is very characteristic of the\nportraits of Rembrandt and Van Dyck.\n\nIn general, it may be said that (1) portraits with the head in\nthe centre of the frame show a balance between the direction\nof suggested movement on one side, and mass or direction of\nattention, or both together, on the other; while (2) portraits\nwith the head not in the centre show a balance between mass\nand interest on one side, and direction of attention, or of\nline, or vista, or combinations of these, on the other.\n\nStill more unsymmetrical in their framework than portraits, in\nfact the most unfettered type of all, are the genre pictures.\nAs these are pictures with a human interest, and full of action\nand particular points of interest, it was to be expected that\ninterest would be the element most frequently appearing.  In\ncompositions showing great variations from geometrical symmetry,\nit was also to be expected that vista and line, elements which\nhave been noted comparatively seldom up to this point, should\nsuddenly appear strongly; for, as being the most strikingly\n\"heavy\" of the elements, they serve to compensate for other\nvariations combined.\n\nThe landscape is another type of unfettered composition.  It\nwas of course to be expected that in pictures without action\nthere should be little suggestion of attention or of direction\nof movement.  But the most remarkable point is the presence\nof vista in practically every example.  It is, of course,\nnatural that somewhere in almost every picture there should\nbe a break to show the horizon line, for the sake of variety,\nif for nothing else; but what is significant is the part played\nby this break in the balancing of the picture.  In about two\nthirds of the examples the vista is inclosed by lines, or\nmasses, and when near the centre, as being at the same time the\n\"heaviest\" part of the picture, it serves as a fulcrum or centre\nto bind the parts--always harder to bring together than in the\nother types of pictures--into a close unity.  The most frequent\nform of this arrangement is a diagonal, which just saves itself\nby turning up at its far end.  Thus the mass, and hence usually\nthe special interest of the picture, is on the one side, on\nthe other the vista and the sloping line of the diagonal.  In\nvery few cases is the vista behind an attractive or noticeable\npart of the picture, the fact showing that it acts in opposition\nto the latter, leading the eye away from it, and thus serving at\nonce the variety and richness of the picture, and its unity.  A\ncomplete diagonal would have line and vista both working at the\nextreme outer edge of the picture, and thus too strongly,--\nunless, indeed, balanced by very striking elements near the\nouter edge.\n\nThis function of the vista as a unifying element is of interest\nin connection with the theory of Hildebrand,<1> that the landscape\nshould have a narrow foreground and wide background, since that\nis most in conformity with our experience.  He adduces Titian's\n\"Sacred and Profane Love\" as an example.  But of the general\nprinciple it may be said that not the reproduction of nature,\nbut the production of beauty, is the aim of composition, and that\nthis aim is best reached by focusing the eye by a narrow background,\ni.e. vista.  No matter how much it wanders, it returns to that\ncentral spot and is held there, keeping hold on all the other\nelements.  Of Hildebrand's example it may be said that the\npyramidal composition, with the dark and tall tree in the centre,\neffectually accomplishes the binding together of the two figures,\nso that a vista is not needed.  A wide background without that\ntree would leave them rather disjointed.\n\n<1> Op cit., p. 55.\n\nIn general, it may be said that balance in landscape is effected\nbetween mass and interest on one side and vista and line on the\nother; and that union is given especially by the use of vista.\n\n\nII\n\nThe experimental treatment of the isolated elements detected\nthe particular function of each in distributing attention in\nthe field of view.  But while all are possibly operative in a\ngiven picture, some are given, as we have seen, much more\nimportance than others, and in pictures of different types\ndifferent elements predominate.  In those classes with a\ngeneral symmetrical framework, such as the altar and Madonna\npieces, the elements of interest and direction of attention\ndetermine the balance, for they appear as variations in a\nsymmetry which has already, so to speak, disposed of mass and\nline.  They give what action there is, and where they are very\nstrongly operative, they are opposed by salient lines and deep\nvistas, which act more strongly on the attention than does mass.\nInterest keeps its predominance throughout the types, except in\nthe portraits, where the head is usually in the central line.\nBut even among the portraits it has a respectable representation,\nas jewels, embroideries, beautiful hands, etc., count largely\ntoo in composition.\n\nThe direction of attention is most operative among the portraits.\nSince these pictures represent no action, it must be given by\nthose elements which move and distribute the attention; in\naccordance with which principle we find line also unusually\ninfluential.  As remarked above, altar-pieces and Madonna pictures,\nalso largely without action, depend largely for it on the direction\nof attention.\n\nThe vista, as said above, rivets and confines the attention.  We\ncan, therefore, understand how it is that in the genre pictures it\nappears very numerous.  The active character of these pictures\nnaturally requires to be modified, and the vista introduces a\npowerful balancing element, which is yet quiet; or, it might be\nsaid, inasmuch as energy is certainly expended in plunging down\nthe third dimension, the vista introduces an element of action\nof counterbalancing character.  In the landscape it introduces\nthe principal element of variety.  It is always to be found in\nthose parts of the picture which are opposed to other powerful\nelements, and the \"heavier\" the other side, the deeper the vista.\nAlso in pictures with two groups it serves as a kind of fulcrum,\nor unifying element, inasmuch as it rivets the attention between\nthe two detached sides.\n\nThe direction of suggestion by means of the indication of a line,\nquite naturally is more frequent in the Madonna picture and\nportrait classes.  Both these types are of large simple outline,\nso that line would be expected to tell.  In a decided majority\nof cases, combined with vista--the shape being more or less a\ndiagonal slope--it is clear that it acts as a kind of bond\nbetween the two sides, carrying the attention without a break\nfrom one to the other.\n\nThe element of mass requires less comment.  It appears in\ngreatest number in those pictures which have little action, i.e. portraits and landscapes, and which are not yet symmetrical,--\nin which last case mass is, of course, already balanced.  In\nfact, it must of necessity exert a certain influence in every\nunsymmetrical picture, and so its percentage, even for genre\npictures, is large.\n\nThus we may regard the elements as both attracting attention to\na certain spot and dispersing it over a field.  Those types\nwhich are of a static character (landscapes, altar-pieces)\nabound in elements which disperse the attention; those which\nare of a dynamic character (genre picture), in those which make\nit stable.  The ideal composition seems to combine the dynamic\nand static elements,--to animate, in short, the whole field of\nview, but in a generally bilateral fashion.  The elements, in\nsubstitutional symmetry, are then simply means of introducing\nvariety and action.  As a dance in which there are complicated\nsteps gives the actor and beholder a varied and thus vivified\n\"balance,\" and is thus more beautiful than the simple walk, so\na picture composed in substitutional symmetry is more rich in\nits suggestions of motor impulse, and thus more beautiful, than\nan example of geometrical symmetry.\n\n\nIII\n\nThe particular functions of the elements which are substituted\nfor geometrical symmetry have been made clear; their presence\nlends variety and richness to the balance of motor impulses.\nBut this quality of repose, or unity, given by balance, is also\nenriched by a unity for intuition,--a large outline in which all\nthe elements are held together.  Now this way of holding together\nvaries; and I believe that it bears a very close relation to the\nsubject and purpose of the picture.\n\nExamples of these types of composition may best be found by\nanalyzing a few well-known pictures.  We may begin with the class\nfirst studied, the Altar-piece, choosing a picture by Botticelli,\nin the Florence Academy.  Under an arch is draped a canopy held\nup by angels; under this, again, sits the Madonna with the Child\non her lap, on a throne, at the foot of which, on each side,\nstand three saints.  The outline of the whole is markedly\npyramidal; in fact, there are, broadly speaking, three pyramids,\n--of the arch, the canopy, and the grouping.  A second, much\nless symmetrical example of this type, is given by another\nBotticelli in the Academy,--\"Spring.\"  Here the central female\nfigure, topped by the floating Cupid, is slightly raised above\nthe others, which, however, bend slightly inward, so that a\ntriangle, or pyramid with very obtuse angle at the apex, is\nsuggested; and the whole, which at first glance seems a little\nscattered, is at once felt, when this is grasped, as closely\nbound together.\n\nClosely allied to this is the type of the Holbein \"Madonna of\nBurgomaster Meyer,\" in the Grand Ducal Castle, Darmstadt.  It\nis true that the same pyramid is given by the head of the\nMadonna against the shell-like background, and her spreading\ncloak which envelops the kneeling donors.  But still more\nsalient is the diamond form given by the descending rows of\nthese worshiping figures, especially against the dark background\nof the Madonna's dress.  A second example, without the pyramid\nbacking, is found in Rubens's \"Rape of the Daughters of\nLeucippus,\" in the Alte Pinakothek at Munich.  Here the diamond\nshape formed by the horses and struggling figures is most\nremarkable,--an effect of lightness which will be discussed\nlater in interpreting the types.\n\nA third type, the diagonal, is given in an \"Evening Landscape\"\nby Cuyp, in the Buckingham Palace, London.  High trees and\ncliffs, horsemen and others, occupy one side, and the mountains\nin the background, the ground and the clouds, all slope\ngradually down to the other side.\n\nIt is a natural transition from this type to the V-shape of the\nlandscapes by Aart van der Neer, \"Dutch Villages,\" in the London\nNational Gallery and in the Rudolphinum at Prague, respectively.\nHere are trees and houses on each side, gradually sloping to\nthe centre to show an open sky and deep vista.  Other examples,\nof course, show the opening not exactly in the centre.\n\nIn the \"Concert\" by Giorgione, in the Pitti Gallery, Florence,\nis seen the less frequent type of the square.  The three\nfigures turned toward each other with heads on the same level\nmake almost a square space-shape, although it might be said\nthat the central player gives a pyramidal foundation.  This\nlast may also be said of Verrocchio's \"Tobias and the\nArchangels\" in the Florence Academy, for the square, or other\nrectangle, is again lengthened by the pyramidal shape of the\ntwo central figures.  The unrelieved square, it may here be\ninterpolated, is not often found except in somewhat primitive\nexamples.  Still less often observed is the oval type of\n\"Samson's Wedding Feast,\" Rembrandt, in the Royal Gallery,\nDresden.  Here one might, by pressing the interpretation, see\nan obtuse-angled double-pyramid with the figure of Delilah for\nan apex, but a few very irregular pictures seem to fall best\nunder the given classification.\n\nLast of all, it must be remarked that the great majority of\npictures show a combination of two or even three types; but\nthese are usually subordinated to one dominant type.  Such,\nfor instance, is the case with many portraits, which are\nmarkedly pyramidal, with the double-pyramid suggested by the\nposition of the arms, and the inverted pyramid, or V, in the\nlandscape background.  The diagonal sometimes just passes over\ninto the V-shape, or into the pyramid; or the square is\ncombined with both.\n\nWhat types are characteristic of the different kinds of pictures?\nIn order to answer this question we must ask first, What are the\ndifferent kinds of pictures?  One answer, at least, is at once\nsuggested to the student on a comparison of the pictures with\ntheir groupings according to subjects.  All those which represent\nthe Madonna enthroned, with all variations, with or without\nsaints, shepherds, or Holy Family, are very quiet in their action;\nthat is, it is not really an action at all which they represent,\nbut an attitude,--the attitude of contemplation.  This is no\nless true of the pictures we may call \"Adorations,\" in which,\nindeed, the contemplative attitude is still more marked.  On the\nother hand, such pictures as the \"Descents,\" the \"Annunciations,\"\nand very many of the miscellaneous religious, allegorical, and\ngenre pictures, portray a definite action or event.  Now the\npyramid type is characteristic of the \"contemplative\" pictures\nin a much higher degree.  A class which might be supposed to\nsuggest the same treatment in composition is that of the portraits,\n--absolute lack of action being the rule.  And we find, indeed,\nthat no single type is represented within it except the pyramid\nand double-pyramid, with eighty-six per cent. of the former.\nThus it is evident that for the type of picture which expresses\nthe highest degree of quietude, contemplation, concentration,\nthe pyramid is the characteristic type of composition.  Among\nthe so-called \"active\" pictures, the diagonal and V-shaped types\nare most numerous.\n\nThe landscape picture presents a somewhat different problem.  It\ncannot be described as either \"active\" or \"passive,\" inasmuch as\nit does not express either an attitude or an event.  There is no\ndefinite idea to be set forth, no point of concentration, as\nwith the altar-pieces and the portraits, for instance; and yet\na unity is demanded.  An examination of the proportions of the\ntypes shows at once the characteristic type to be here also the\ndiagonal and V-shaped.\n\nIt is now necessary to ask what must be the interpretation of\nthe use of these types of composition.  Must we consider the\npyramid the expression of passivity, the diagonal or V-shape, of\nactivity?  But the greatly predominating use of the second for\nlandscapes would remain unexplained, for at least nothing can\nbe more reposeful than the latter.  It may aid the solution of\nthe problem to remember that the composition taken as a whole\nhas to meet the demand for unity, at the same time that it\nallows free play to the natural expression of the subject.  The\naltar-piece has to bring about a concentration of attention to\nexpress or induce a feeling of reverence.  This is evidently\naccomplished by the suggestion of the converging lines to the\nfixation of the high point in the picture,--the small area\noccupied by the Madonna and Child,--and by the subordination\nof the free play of other elements.  The contrast between the\nbroad base and the apex gives a feeling of solidity, of repose;\nand it seems not unreasonable to suppose that the tendency to\nrest the eyes above the centre of the picture directly induces\nthe associated mood of reverence or worship.  Thus the\npyramidal form serves two ends; primarily that of giving unity,\nand secondarily, by the peculiarity of its shape, that of\ninducing the feeling-tone appropriate to the subject of the\npicture.\n\nApplying this principle to the so-called \"active\" pictures, we\nsee that the natural movement of attention between the different\n\"actors\" in the picture must be allowed for, while yet unity is\nsecured.  And it is clear that the diagonal type is just fitted\nfor this.  The attention sweeps down from the high side to the\nlow, from which it returns through some backward suggestion of\nlines or interest in the objects of the high side.  Action and\nreaction--movement and return of attention--is inevitable under\nthe conditions of this type; and this it is which allows the\nfree play,--which, indeed, CONSTITUTES and expresses the activity\nbelonging to the subject, just as the fixation of the pyramid\nconstitutes the quietude of the religious picture.  Thus it is\nthat the diagonal composition is particularly suited to portray\nscenes of grandeur, and to induce a feeling of awe in the\nspectator, because only here can the eye rove in one large sweep\nfrom side to side of the picture, recalled by the mass and\ninterest of the side from which it moves.  The swing of the\npendulum is here widest, so to speak, and all the feeling-tones\nwhich belong to wide, free movement are called into play.  If,\nat the same time, the element of the deep vista is introduced,\nwe have the extreme of concentration combined with the extreme\nof movement; and the result is a picture in the \"grand style\"\n--comparable to high tragedy--in which all the feeling-tones\nwhich wait on motor impulses are, as it were, while yet in the\nsame reciprocal relation, tuned to the highest pitch.  Such a\npicture is the \"Finding of the Ring,\" Paris Bordone, in the\nVenice Academy.  All the mass and the interest and the suggestion\nof the downward lines and of the magnificent perspective toward\nthe left, and the effect of the whole space composition is of\nsuperb largeness of life and feeling.  Compare Titian's\n\"Presentation of the Virgin,\" also the two great compositions\nby Veronese, \"Martyrdom of St. Mark,\" etc., in the Doge's Palace,\nVenice, and \"Esther before Ahaseurus,\" in the Uffizi, Florence.\nIn these last two, the mass, direction of interest, movement,\nand attention are toward the left, while all the lines tend\ndiagonally to the right, where a vista is also suggested,--the\ndiagonal making a V just at the end.  Here, too, the effect is\nof magnificence and vigor.\n\nIf, then, the pyramid belongs to contemplation, the diagonal\nto action, what ca be said of landscape?  It is without action,\nit is true, and yet does not express that positive quality, that\nWILL not to act, of the rapt contemplation.  The landscape\nuncomposed is negative, and it demands unity.  Its type of\ncomposition, then, must give it something positive besides\nunity.  It lacks both concentration and action; but it can gain\nthem both from a space composition which shall combine unity\nwith a tendency to movement.  And this is given by the diagonal\nand V-shaped type.  This type merely allows free play to the\nnatural tendency of the \"active\" picture; but it constrains the\nneutral, inanimate landscape.  The shape itself imparts motion\nto the picture:  the sweep of line, the concentration of the\nvista, the unifying power of the inverted triangle between two\nmasses, act, as it were, externally to the suggestion of the\nobject itself.  There is always enough quiet in a landscape,--\nthe overwhelming suggestion of the horizontal suffices for\nthat; it is movement that is needed for richness of effect, and,\nas I have shown, no type imparts the feeling of movement so\nstrongly as the diagonal and V-shaped type of composition.\nLandscapes need energy to produce \"stimulation,\" not repression,\nand so the diagonal type is proportionately more numerous.\n\nThe rigid square is found only at an early stage in the\ndevelopment of composition.  Moreover, all the examples are\n\"story\" pictures, for the most part scenes from the lives of\nthe saints, etc.  Many of them are double-centre,--square, that\nis, with a slight break in the middle, the grouping purely\nlogical, to bring out the relations of the characters.  Thus,\nin the \"Dream of Saint Martin,\" Simone Martini, a fresco at\nAssisi, the saint lies straight across the picture with his\nhead in one corner.  Behind him on one side stand the Christ\nand angels, grouped closely together, their heads on the same\nlevel.  These are all, of course, in one sense symmetrical,--\nin the weight of interest, at least,--but they are completely\namorphous from an aesthetic point of view.  The forms, that is,\ndo not count at all,--only the meanings.  The story is told by\na clear separation of the parts, and as, in most stories, there\nare two principal actors, it merely happens that they fall into\nthe two sides of the picture.  On the other hand, a rigid\ngeometrical symmetry is also characteristic of early composition,\nand these two facts seem to contradict each other.  But it is\nto be noted, first, that the rigid geometrical symmetry belongs\nonly to the \"Madonna Enthroned,\" and general \"Adoration\" pieces;\nand secondly, that this very rigidity of symmetry in details\ncan coexist with variations which destroy balance.  Thus, in a\n\"Madonna Enthroned\" of Giotto, where absolute symmetry in detail\nis kept, the Child sits far out on the right knee of the Madonna.\n\nIt would seem that the symmetry of these early pictures was not\ndictated by a conscious demand for symmetrical arrangement, or\nrather for real balance, else such failures would hardly occur.\nThe presence of geometrical symmetry is more easily explained\nas the product, in large part, of technical conditions:  of the\nfact that these pictures were painted as altar-pieces to fill\na space definitely symmetrical in character--often, indeed,\nwith architectural elements intruding into it.  We may even\nconnect the Madonna pictures with the temple images of the\nclassic period, to explain why it was natural to paint the\nobject of worship seated exactly facing the worshiper.  Thus\nwe may separate the two classes of pictures, the one giving an\nobject of worship, and thus taking naturally, as has been said,\nthe pyramidal, symmetrical shape, and being moulded to symmetry\nby all other suggestions of technique; the other aiming at\nnothing except logical clearness.  This antithesis of the\nsymbol and the story has a most interesting parallel in the two\ngreat classes of primitive art--the one symbolic, merely suggestive,\nshaped by the space it had to fill, and so degenerating into the\nslavishly symmetrical; the other descriptive, \"story-telling,\" and\nwithout a trace of space composition.  On neither side is there\nevidence of direct aesthetic feeling.  Only in the course of\nartistic development do we find the rigid, yet often unbalanced,\nsymmetry relaxing into a free substitutional symmetry, and the\nformless narrative crystallizing into a really unified and\nbalanced space-form.  The two antitheses approach each other in\nthe \"balance\" of the masterpieces of civilized art--in which, for\nthe first time, a real feeling for space composition makes itself\nfelt.\n\n\n\nV\nTHE BEAUTY OF MUSIC\n\n\nV\nTHE BEAUTY OF MUSIC\n\nI\n\nTHERE is a story, in Max Muller's amusing reminiscences, of\nhow Mendelssohn and David once played, in his hearing, Beethoven's\nlater sonatas for piano and violin, and of how they shrugged\ntheir shoulders, and opined the old man had not been quite\nhimself when he wrote them.  In the history of music it seems\nto be a rule almost without exceptions, that the works of genius\nare greeted with contumely.  The same is no doubt true, though\nto a much less degree, of other arts, but in music it seems that\nthe critics proposed also excellent reasons for their vehemence.\nAnd it is instructive to observe that the objections, and the\nreasons for the objections, recur, after the original object of\nwrath has passed into acceptance, nay, into dominance of the\nmusical world.  One may also descry one basic controversy running\nthrough all these utterances, even when not explicitly set forth.\n\nIt was made a reproach to Beethoven, as it has been made a\nreproach to Richard Strauss, that he sacrificed the beauty of\nform to expression; and it was rejoined, perhaps less in the old\ntime than now, that expression was itself the end and meaning of\nmusic.  Now the works of genius, as we have seen, after all take\ncare of themselves.  But it is of greatest significance for the\ntheory of music, as of all art, that in the circle of the years,\nthe same contrasting views, grown to ever sharper opposition,\nstill greet the appearance of new work.  It was with Wagner, as\nall the world knows, that the question came first to complete\nformulation.  His invention of the music-drama rested on his\nfamous theory of music as the heightened medium of expression,\nglorified speech, which accordingly demands freedom to follow\nall the varying nuances of feeling and emotion.  Music has\nalways been called the language of the emotions, but Wagner\nbased his views not only on the popular notion, but on the\nmetaphysical theories of Schopenhauer; in particular, on the\nview that music is the objectification of the will.  Herbert\nSpencer followed with the thesis that music has its essential\nsource in the cadences of emotional speech.  In opposition\nprimarily to Wagner, the so-called formalists were represented\nby Hanslick, who wrote his well-known \"The Beautiful in Music\"\nto show that though music ha a limited capacity of expression,\nits aim is formal or logical perfection alone.  The expressionist\nschool could not contradict the undoubted fact that chords and\nintervals which are harmonious show certain definite physical\nand mathematical relationships, that, in other words, our\nmusical preferences appear to be closely related to, if not\ndetermined by, these relationships.  Thus each school seemed\nto be backed by science.  The emotional-speech theory has been\nheld in a vague way, indeed, by most of those theorists whose\nnatural conservatism would have drawn them in the other\ndirection, and is doubtless responsible for the attempts at\nmediation, first made by Ambros,<1> and now met in almost all\nmusical literature.  Music may be, and is, expressive, it is\nsaid, so long as each detail allows itself to be entirely\nderived from and justified by the mere formal element.  The\n\"centre of gravity\" lies in the formal relations.\n\n<1> _The Boundaries of Music and Poetry._\n\nTo this, after all, Hanslick himself might subscribe.  Other\nwriters seek to balance form and expression, insisting on\n\"the dual nature of music,\" while resting ultimately on the\nemotional-speech theory.  \"The most universal composers,\nrecognizing the interdependence of the two elements, produce\nthe highest type of pure music, music in which beauty is based\nupon expression, and expression transfigured by beauty.\"<1>\n\n<1>  D.G. Mason, _From Grieg to Brahms_, 1902, p. 30.\n\nThis usual type of reconciliation, however, is a perfectly\nmechanical binding together of two possibly conflicting\naesthetic demands.  The question is of the essential nature\nof music, not whether music may be, but whether it must be,\nexpressive; not whether is has expressive power, but whether\nit is, in its essence, expression,--a question which is only\nobscured by insisting on the interdependence of the two\nelements.  If music has its essential source in the cadences\nof speech, then it must develop and must be judged accordingly.\nHerbert Spencer is perfectly logical in saying \"It may be\nshown that music is but an idealization of the natural\nlanguage of emotion, and that, consequently, music must be\ngood or bad according as it conforms to the laws of this\nnatural language.\"<1>  But what, then, of music which,\naccording to Ambros, is justified by its formal relations?\nIs music good because it is very expressive, and bad because\nit is too little expressive? or is its goodness and badness\nindependent of its expressiveness?  Such a question is not\nto be answered by recognizing two kinds of goodness.  Only\nby an attempt to decide the fundamental nature of the musical\nexperience, and an adjustment of the other factors in strict\nsubordination to it, can the general principle be settled.\n\n<1> _On Educaiton_, p. 41.\n\nThe excuse for this artificial yoking together of two opposing\nprinciples is apparent when it is seen that form and expression\nare taken as addressing themselves to two different mental\nfaculties.  It seems to be the view of most musical theorists\nthat the experience of musical form is a perception, while the\nexperience of musical expression, disregarding for the moment\nthe suggestion of facts and ideas, is an emotion.  Thus Mr.\nMason:  \"In music we are capable of learning, and knowledge\nof the principles of musical effect can help us to learn, that\nthe balance and proportion and symmetry of the whole is far\nmore essential than any poignancy, however great, in the parts.\nHe best appreciates music...who understands it intellectually\nas well as feels it emotionally;\"<1> and again, \"We feel in\nthe music of Haydn its lack of emotional depth, and its lack\nof intellectual subtlety.\"\n\n<1> Op. Cit., p. 6.\n\nIt is just this contrast and parallelism of structure as\nbalance, proportion, symmetry, addressed to the mind, with\nexpression as emotional content, that a true view of the\naesthetic experience would lead us to challenge.  If there\nis one thing that our study of the general nature of aesthetic\nexperience has shown, it is that aesthetic emotion is unique--\nneither a perception nor an intellectual grasp of relations,\nnor an emotion within the accepted rubric--joy, desire,\ntriumph, etc.  Whether or not music is an exception to this\nprinciple, remains to be seen; but the presumption is at\nleast in favor of a direct, immediate, unique emotion aroused\nby the true beauty of music, whatever that may prove to be.\n\nWith a great literature in the form of special studies, we\nmust yet, on the whole, admit that we possess no general\nformula in the philosophy or psychology of music which covers\nthe whole ground.  Schopenhauer has said that music is the\nobjectification of the will--not a copy or a picture of it,\nbut the will itself; a doctrine which however illuminating\nwhen it is modified in various ways is obviously no explanation\nof our experience.  Hanslick has but shown what music is not;\nEdmund Gurney's eloquent book, \"The Power of Sound,\" is\ncompletely agnostic in its conclusion that music is a unique,\nindefinable, indescribable phenomenon, which possesses, indeed,\ncertain analogues with other physical and psychical facts, but\nis coextensive with none.  Spencer's theory of music as\nglorified speech is not only in a yet unexplained conflict\nwith many facts, but has never been formulated so that it could\napply to concrete cases.  The same is true of Wagner's \"music\nas the utterance of feeling.\"\n\nBut there is a body of scientific facts respecting the elements\nof music, in which we may well seek for clues.  As facts alone\nthey are of no value.  They must be explained as completely as\npossible; and it is probable that if we are able to reach the\nultimate nature and origin of these elements of music they\nwill prove significant, and a way will be opened to a theory\nof the whole musical experience.  The need of such intensive\nunderstanding must excuse the more or less technical discussions\nin the following pages, without which no firm foundation for a\ntheory of music could be attained.\n\n\nII\n\nThe two great factors of music are rhythm and tone-sensation,\nof which rhythm appears to be the more fundamental.\n\nRhythm is defined in general as a repeating series of time\nintervals.  Events which occur in such a series are said to\nhave rhythm.  In aesthetics, it is the periodic recurrence of\nstress, emphasis, or accent in the movements of dancing, the\nsounds of music, the language of poetry.  Subjectively it is\nthe quality of stimulation due to a succession of impressions\n(tactual and auditory are most favorable) which vary regularly\nin objective intensity.  We desire to understand the nature,\nand the source of the pleasing quality, of this phenomenon.\n\nIt is only by a complete psychological description, however,\neven a physiological explanation, that we can hope to fathom\nthe tremendous significance of rhythm in music and poetry.\nThose treatments which expose its development in the dance and\nsong really beg the question; they assume the very fact for\nwhich we have to find the ground, namely, the natural impulse\nto rhythm.  Even those theories which explain it as a helpful\nsocial phenomenon, as regulating work, etc., fail to account\nfor its peculiar psychological character--that compelling,\nintimate force, the \"Zwang\" of which Nietszche speaks, which\nwe all feel, and which makes it helpful.  This compelling\nquality of rhythm would lead us to look behind the sociological\ninfluences, for the explanation in some fundamental condition\nof consciousness, some \"demand\" of the organism.  For this\nreason we must find superficial the views which connect rhythm\nwith the symmetry of the body as making rhythmical gesture\nnecessary; or more particularly with the conditions of work,\nwhich, if it is skilled and well carried out, proceeds in\nequal recurring periods, like the swinging of a hammer or an\naxe.  But it appears that primitive effort is not carried on\nin this way, and proceeds, not from regularity to rhythm, but\nrather, through, by means of rhythm, which is made a help, to\nregularity.  Again, it is said that work can be well carried\nout by a large number of people, only in unison, only by\nsimultaneous action, and that rhythm is a condition of this.\nThe work in the cotton fields, the work of sailors, etc.\nrequires something to give notice of the moment for beginning\naction.  Rhythm would then have arisen as a social function.\nAgainst this it may be said that signals of this kind might\nassist common action without recurring at regular intervals,\nwhile periodicity is the fundamental quality of rhythm.  Thus\nthis theory would explain a natural tendency by its effect.\n\nLooking then, in accordance with the principle stated above,\nfor deeper conditions, we find rhythm explained in connection\nwith such rhythmical events as the heart beat and pulse, the\ndouble rhythm of the breath; but these are, for the most part,\nunfelt; and moreover, they would hardly explain the predominance\nof rhythms quite other than the physiological ones.  Another\ntheory, closely allied, connects rhythm with the conditions\nof activity in general, but attaches itself rather to the\neffect of rhythm than to its cause.  Thus we are reminded of\nthe \"heightened sense of expansion, or life, connected with\nthe augmentation of muscular movements induced by the more\nextensive nervous discharges following rhythmic stimulation.\"<1>\nBut why should it be just rhythmic stimulation that produces\nthis effect?  We are finally thrown back on physiology for the\nanswer that in rhythmical stimulation there are involved\nrecurrent activities of organs refreshed by immediately\npreceding periods of repose.  Here again, however, we must ask,\nwhy on this hypothesis the periods themselves must be exactly\nequal.  For within the periods the greatest variety obtains.\nOne measure of a single note may be succeeded by another\ncontaining eight; within the periods, that is, the minor\nmoments of activity and repose are quite unequal.\n\n<1> H.R. Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Aesthetics._\n\nLast of all, we must note the view of rhythm as a phenomenon\nof expectation (Wundt).  But while we can undoubtedly describe\nrhythm in terms of expectation and its satisfaction, rhythm is\nrhythm just through its difference from other kinds of expectation.\n\nAll these explanations seem either merely to describe the facts\nwe seek to explain, or to fail to notice the peculiar intimate\nnature of the rhythmical experience.  But if it could be shown\nnot only that in all stimulation there must be involved an\nalternation of activity and repose, but also that an equality\nof such periods was highly favorable to the organism, we should\nhave the conditions for a physiological theory of rhythm.  Now\nthe important psychological facts of so-called subjective\nrhythmizing seem to supply just this need.\n\nIt has been shown<1> that we can neither receive objectively\nequal sense-stimuli, nor produce regular movements, without\ninjecting into these a rhythmical element.  A series of objectively\nequal sound-stimuli--the ticking of a clock, for instance--is\nheard in groups, within each of which one element is of greater\nintensity.  A series of movements are never objectively equal,\nbut grouped in the same way.  Now this subjective rhythm, sensory\nand motor, is explained as follows from the general physiological\nbasis of attention.\n\n<1> T.L. Bolton, _Amer. Jour. Of Psychol._, vol. vi.  The classical\nhistorical study of theories of rhythm remains that of Meumann,\n_Phil. Studien_, vol. x.\n\nAttention itself is ultimately a motor phenomenon.  Thus:  the\nsensory aspect of attention is vividness, and vividness is\nexplained physiologically as a brain-state of readiness for motor\ndischarge;<1> in the case of a visual stimulus, for instance, a\nstate of readiness to carry out movements of adjustment to the\nobject; in short, the motor path is open.  Now attention, or\nvividness, is found to fluctuate periodically, so that in a\nseries of objectively equal stimuli, certain ones, regularly\nrecurring, would be more vividly sensed.  This is exemplified\nin the well-known facts of the fluctuation of the threshold of\nsensation, of the so-called retinal rivalry, and of the subjective\nrhythmizing of auditory stimuli, already mentioned.  There is a\nnatural rhythm of vividness.  Here, therefore, in the very\nconditions of consciousness itself, we have the conditions of\nrhythm too.  The case of subjective motor rhythm would be still\nclearer, since vividness is only the psychical side of readiness\nfor motor discharge; in other words, increased readiness for\nmotor discharge occurs periodically, giving motor rhythm.\n\n<1> Munsterberg, _Grundzuge d. Psychologie_, 1902,. P. 525.\n\nIt has been said<1> that this periodicity of the brain-wave\ncannot furnish the necessary condition for rhythm, inasmuch as\nit is itself a constant, and could at most be applied to a series\nwhich was adapted to its own time.  But this objection does not\nfit the facts.  The \"brain-wave,\" or \"vividness,\" or attention\nperiod, is not a constant, but attaches itself to the contents\nof consciousness.  In other words, it does not function without\nmaterial.  It is itself conditioned by its occasion.  In the\ncase of a regularly repeated stimulus, it is simply adjusted\nto what is there, and out of the series chooses, as it were,\none at regular periods.<2>\n\n<1> J.B. Miner, \"Motor, Visual, and Applied Rhythms,\" _Psychol.\nRev., Mon. Suppl._, No. 21.\n<2> Facts, too technical for reproduction here, quoted by R.H.\nStetson (_Harvard Psychol. Studies_, vol. i, 1902) from Cleghorn's\nand Hofbauer's experiments seem to be in harmony with this view.\n\nClosely connected with these facts, perhaps only a somewhat\ndifferent aspect of them, is the phenomenon of motor mechanization.\nAny movement repeated tends to become a circular reaction, as it\nis called; that is, the end of one repetition serves as a cue\nfor the beginning of the next.  Now, in regularly recurring\nstimuli, giving rise, as will be later shown, to motor reactions,\nwhich are differentiated through the natural periodicity of the\nattention (physiologically the tendency to motor discharge), we\nhave the best condition for this mechanization.  In other words,\na rhythmical grouping once set up naturally tends to persist.\nThe organism prepares itself for shocks at definite times, and\nshocks coming at those times are pleasant because they fulfill\na need.  Moreover, every further stimulus reinforces the original\nactivity; so that rhythmical grouping tends not only to persist,\nbut to grow more distinct,--as, indeed, all the facts of\nintrospection show.\n\nAll this, however, is true of the repetition of objectively\nequal stimuli.  It shows how an impulse to rhythm would arise\nand persist subjectively, but does not of itself explain the\npleasure in the experience of objective rhythm.  It may be said\nin general, however, that changes which would occur naturally\nin an objectively undifferentiated content give direct pleasure\nwhen they are artificially introduced,--when, that is, the\nnatural disposition is satisfied.  This we have seen to be true\nin the of color contrast; and it is perhaps even more valid in\nthe realm of motor activity.  Whatever in sense stimulation\ngives the condition for, helps, furthers, enhances the natural\nfunction, is felt both as pleasing and as furthering the particular\nactivity in question.  Now, the objective stress in rhythm is but\nemphasis on a stress that would be in any case to some degree\nsubjectively supplied.  Rhythm in music, abstracting from all\nother pleasure-giving factors, is then pleasurable because it\nis in every sense a favorable stimulation.\n\nIn accordance with the principle that complete explanation of\npsychical facts is possible only through the physiological\nsubstrate, we have so far kept rather to that field in dealing\nwith the foundations of our pleasure in rhythm.  But further\ndescription of the rhythmical experience is most natural in\npsychological terms.  There seems, indeed, on principle no\nground for the current antithesis, so much emphasized of late,\nof \"psychical\" and \"motor\" theories of rhythm.  Attention and\nexpectation are not \"psychical\" as opposed to \"motor.\"  Granting,\nas no doubt most psychologists would grant, that attention is\nthe psychical analogue of the physiological tendency to motor\ndischarge, then a motor automatism of which one is fully\nconscious could be described as expectation and its satisfaction.\nIndeed, the impossibility of a sharp distinction between ideas\nof movement and movement sensations confirms this view.  When\nexpectation has reference to an experience with a movement\nelement in it, the expectation itself contains movement\nsensations of the kind in question.<1>  To say, then, that\nrhythm is expectation based on the natural functioning of the\nattention period, is simply to clothe our physiological\nexplanation in terms of psychological description.  The usual\nmotor theory is merely one which neglects the primary disposition\nto rhythm through attention variations, in favor of the\nsensations of muscular tension (kinaesthetic sensations) which\narise IN rhythm, but do not cause it.  To say that the impression\nof rhythm arises only in kinaesthetic sensations begs the\nquestion in the way previously noted.  Undoubtedly, the period\nonce established, the rhythmic group is held together, felt as\na unit, by means of the coordinated movement sensations; but\nthe main problem, the possibility of this first establishment,\nis not solved by such a motor theory.  In other words, the\nattention theory is the real motor theory.\n\n<1> C.M. Hitchcock, \"The Psychol. Of Expectation,\" _Psychol.\nRev., Mon. Suppl._, No. 20.\n\nExpectation is the \"set\" of the attention.  Automatism is the\nset of the motor centres.  Now as attention is parallel to the\ncondition of the motor centres, we are able to equate expectation\nand automatic movement.  Rhythm is literally embodied expectation,\nfulfilled.  It is therefore easily to be understood that whatever\nother emotions connect themselves with satisfied expectation are\nat their ideal poignance in the case of rhythm.\n\nIt is from this point of view that we must understand the\nhelpfulness of rhythm in work.  That all definite stimulus, and\nespecially sound stimulus, rhythmical or not, sets up a diffusive\nwave of energy, increasing blood circulation, dynamogenic\nphenomena, etc., is another matter, which has later to be\ndiscussed.  But the essential is that this additional stimulus\nis rhythmical, and therefore a reinforcement of the nervous\nactivity, and therefore a lightening and favorable condition of\nwork itself.  So it is, too, that we can understand the tremendous\ninfluence of rhythm just among primitive peoples, and those of a\nlow degree of culture.  Work is hard for savages, not because\nbodily effort is hard, but because the necessary concentration\nof attention is for them almost impossible; and the more, that\nin work they are unskilled, and without good tools, so that\ngenerally every movement has to be especially attended to.  Now\nrhythm in work is especially directed to lighten that effort which\nthey feel as hardest; it rests, renews, and frees the attention.\nRhythm is helpful not primarily because it enables many to work\ntogether by making effort simultaneous, but rhythm rests and\nencourages the individual, and working together is most naturally\ncarried out in rhythm.\n\nTo this explanation all the other facts of life-enhancement, etc.,\ncan be attached.  Rhythm is undoubtedly favorable stimulation.\nCan it be brought under the full aesthetic formula of favorable\nstimulation with repose?  A rhythm once established has both\nretrospective and prospective reference.  It looks before and\nafter, it binds together the first and the last moments of\nactivity, and can therefore truly be said to return upon itself,\nso as to give a sense of equilibrium and repose.\n\nBut when we turn from the fundamental facts of simple rhythm\nto the phenomena of art we find straightway many other problems.\nIt is safe to say that no single phrase of music or line of\npoetry is without variation; more, that a rhythm without variation\nwould be highly disagreeable.  How must we understand these\nfacts?  It is impossible within the natural limitations of this\nchapter to do more than glance at a few of them.\n\nFirst of all, then, the most striking thing about the rhythmical\nexperience is that the period, or group, is felt as a unit.\n\"Of the number and relation of individual beats constituting a\nrhythmical sequence there is no awareness whatever on the part\nof the aesthetic subject....Even the quality of the organic\nunits may lapse from distinct consciousness, and only a feeling\nof the form of the whole sequence remains.\"<1>  Yet the slightest\ndeviation from its form is remarked.  Secondly, every variation\ncreates not only a change in its own unit, but a wave of\ndisturbance all along the line.  Also, every variation from\nthe type indicates a point of accentual stress; the syncopated\nmeasure, for instance, is always strongly accented.  All these\nfacts would seem to be connected with the view of the importance\nof movement sensations in building up the group feeling.  The\nend of each rhythm period gives the cue for the beginning of\nthe next, and the muscle tensions are coordinated within each\ngroup; so that each group is really continuous, and would\nnaturally be \"felt\" as one,--but being automatic, would not be\nperceived in its separate elements.  On the other hand, it is\njust automatic reaction, a deviation from which is felt most\nstrongly.  The syncopated measure has to maintain itself\nagainst pressure, as it were, and thus by making its presence\nin consciousness felt more strongly, it emphasizes the\nfundamental rhythm form.\n\n<1> R. MacDougall, \"The Structure of Simple Rhythm Forms,\"\n_Harv. Psychol. Studies_, vol. i, p. 332.\n\nThis is well shown in the following passage from a technical\ntreatise on expression in the playing of music.  \"The efforts\nwhich feeling makes to hold to...the shape of the first rhythm,\nthe force which it is necessary to use to make it lose its\ndesires and its habits, and to impose others on it, are\nnaturally expressed by an agitation, that is, by a crescendo\nor greater intensity of sound, by an acceleration in movement.\"<1>\nIf a purely technical expression may be pardoned here, it could\nbe said that the motor image,<2> that is, the coordinated\nmuscular tensions which make the group feeling of the fundamental\nrhythm, is always latent, and becomes conscious whenever anything\nconflicts with it.  Thus it is that we can understand the\ntremendous rhythmical consciousness in that music which seems\nmost to contradict the fundamental rhythm, as in negro melodies,\nand rag-time generally; and in general, the livening effect of\nvariation.  The motor tension, the \"set\" becomes felt the\nmoment there is objective interference--just as we feel the\nrhythm of our going downstairs only when we fail to get the\nsensation we expect.\n\n<1> M. Lussy, _Traite de l'Expression Musicale_, Paris, 1874, p. 7.\n<2> _Gestaltsqualitat_, literally form-quality.\n\nThis principle of the motor image is of tremendous significance,\nas we shall see, for the whole theory of music.  Let it be\nsufficient to note here that expression, in the form of\nGestaltsqualitat, or motor image, is, as a principle, sufficient\nfor the explanation of the most important factors in the experience\nof rhythm.\n\n\nIII\n\nBut we have dwelt too long on the general characteristics.\nAlthough our examples have been drawn mostly from the field of\nmusic, the preceding principles apply to all kinds of rhythm,\ntactual and visual as well as auditory.  It is time to show why\nthe rhythm out of all comparison the strongest, most compelling,\nmost full of emotional quality, is the rhythm of music.\n\nIt has long been known that there is especially close connection\nbetween sounds and motor innervations.  All sorts of sensorial\nstimuli produce reflex contractions, but the auditory, apparently,\nto a much higher degree.  Animals are excited to all sorts of\noutbreaks by noise; children are less alarmed by visual than by\nauditory impressions.  The fact that we dance to sound rather\nthan to the waving of a baton, or rhythmical flashes of light\nfor instance--the fact that this second proposition is felt at\nonce to be absurd, shows how intimately the two are bound\ntogether.  The irresistible effects of dance, martial music,\netc., are trite commonplaces; and I shall therefore not heap\nup instances which can be supplied by every reader from his\nown experience.  Now all this is not hard to understand,\nbiologically.  The eye mediated the information of what was\nfar enough away to be fled from, or prepared for; the ear what\nwas likely to be nearer, unseen, and so more ominous.  As more\nominous, it would have to be responded to in action more\nquickly.  So that if any sense was to be in especially close\nconnection with the motor centres, it would naturally be\nhearing.\n\nThe development of the auditory functions points to the same\nclose connection of sound and movement.  Sounds affect us as\ntone, and as impulse.  The primitive sensation was one of\nimpulse alone, mediated by the \"shake-organs.\"  These shake-\norgans at first only gave information about the attitude and\nmovements of the body, and were connected with motor centres\nso as to be able to reestablish equilibrium by means of\nreflexes.  The original \"shake-organ\" developed into the\norgans of hearing and of equilibrium (that is, the cochlea\nand the semicircular canals respectively), but these were\nstill side by side in the inner ear, and the close connection\nwith the motor centres was not lost.  Anatomically, the\nauditory nerve not only goes to those parts of the brain\nwhence the motor innervation emanates, and to the reflex\ncentres in the cerebellum, but passes close by the vagus or\npneumogastric nerve, which rules the heart and the vasomotor\nfunctions.  We have then multiplied reasons for the singular\neffect of sound on motor reactions, and on the other organic\nfunctions which have so much to do with feeling and emotion.\n\nEvery sound-stimulus is then much more than sound-sensation.\nIt causes reflex contractions in the whole muscular system;\nit sets up some sort of cardiac and vascular excitation.\nThis reaction is in general in the direction of increased\namplitude of respiration, but diminution of the pulse,\ndepending on a peripheral vaso-constriction.  Moreover, this\nvasomotor reaction is given in a melody or piece of music,\nnot by its continuity, but for every one of the variations\nof rhythm, key, or intensity,--which is of interest in the\nlight of what has been said of the latent motor image.  The\nobstacle in syncopated rhythm is physiologically translated\nas vaso-constriction.  In general, music induces cardiac\nacceleration.\n\nAll this is of value in showing how completely the attention-\nmotor theory of rhythm applies to the rhythm of sounds.  Since\nsound is much more than sound, but sound-sensation, movement,\nand visceral change together, we can see that the rhythmical\nexperience of music is, even more literally and completely\nthan at first appeared, an EMBODIED expectation.  No sensorial\nrhythm could be so completely induced in the psychological\norganism as the sound-rhythm.  In listening to music, we see\nhow it is that we ourselves, body and soul, seem to be IN the\nrhythm.  We make it, and we wait to make it.  The satisfaction\nof our expectation is like the satisfaction of a bodily desire\nor need; no, not like it, it IS that.  The conditions and\ncauses of rhythm and our pleasure in it are more deeply seated\nthan language, custom, even instinct; they are in the most\nfundamental functions of life.  This element of music, at least,\nseems not to have arisen as a \"natural language.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nThe facts of the relations of tones, the elements, that is,\nof melody and harmony, are as follows.  We cannot avoid the\nobservation that certain tones \"go together,\" as the phrase\nis, while others do not.  This peculiar impression of belonging\ntogether is known as consonance, or harmony.  The intervals of\nthe octave, the fifth, the third, for instance, that is, C-C',\nC-G, C-E, in the diatonic scale, are harmonious; while the\ninterval of the second, C-D, is said to be dissonant.\nConsonance, however, is not identical with pleasingness, for\ndifferent combinations are sometimes pleasing, sometimes\ndispleasing.  In the history of music we know that the octave\nwas to the Greeks the most pleasing combination, to medieval\nmusicians the fifth, while to us, the third, which was once\na forbidden chord, is perhaps most delightful.  Yet we should\nnever doubt that the octave is the most consonant, the fifth\nand the third the lesser consonant of combinations.  We see,\nthus, that consonance, whatever its nature, is independent\nof history; and we must seek for its explanation in the nature\nof the auditory process.\n\nVarious theories have been proposed.  That of Helmholtz has\nheld the field so long that, although weighty objections have\nbeen raised to it, it must still be treated with respect.  In\nintroducing it a short review of the familiar facts of the\nphysics and physiology of hearing may not be out of place.\n\nThe vibration rates per second of the vibrating bodies, strings,\nsteel rods, etc., which produce those musical tones which are\nconsonant, are in definite and small mathematical ratios to\neach other.  Thus the rates of C-C' are as 1:2; of C-G, C-E,\nas 2:3, 4:5.  In general, the simpler the fraction, the\ngreater the consonance.\n\nBut no sonorous body vibrates in one single rate; a taut\nstring vibrates as a whole, which gives its fundamental tone,\nbut also in halves, in fourths, etc., each giving out a\nweaker partial tone, in harmony with the fundamental.  And\naccording to the different ways in which a sonorous body\ndivides, that is, according to the different combination of\npartial tones peculiar to it, is its especial quality of tone,\nor timbre.  The whole complex of fundamental and partial tones\nis what we popularly speak of as a tone,--more technically a\nclang.  These physical agitations or vibrations are transmitted\nto the air.  Omitting the account of the anatomical path by\nwhich they reach the inner ear, we find them at last setting\nup vibrations in a many-fibred membrane, the basilar membrane,\nwhich is in direct connection with the ends of the auditory\nnerve.  It is supposed that to every possible rate of\nvibration, that is, every possible tone, or partial tone, there\ncorresponds a fibre of the basilar membrane fitted by its\nlength to vibrate synchronously with the original wave-elements.\nThe complex wave is thus analyzed into its constituents.  Now\nwhen two tones, which we will for clearness suppose to be\nsimple, unaccompanied by partial tones, sounding together,\nhave vibration rates in simple ratios to each other, the air-\nwaves set in motion do not interfere with each other, but\ncombine into a complex but homogeneous wave.  If they have\nto each other a complicated ratio, such as 500:504, the air-\nwaves will not only not coalesce, but four times in the second\nthe through of one wave will meet the crest of the other, thus\nmaking the algebraic sum zero, and producing the sensation of\na momentary stoppage of the sound.  When these stoppages, or\nbeats, as they are called, are too numerous to be heard\nseparately, as in the interval, say, 500:547, the effect is\nof a disagreeable roughness of tone, and this we call discord.\nIn other words, any tones which do not produce beats are\nharmonious, or harmony is the absence of discord.  In the\nwords of Helmholtz,<1> consonance is a continuous, dissonance\nan intermittent, tone-sensation.\n\n<1> _Lehre v.d. Tonempfindungen_, p. 370, in 4th edition.\n\nAside from the fact that consonance, as a psychological fact,\nseems positive, while this determination is negative, two very\nimportant facts can be set up in opposition.  As a result of\nexperimental investigation, we know that the impression of\nconsonance can accompany the intermittent or rough sound-\nsensations we know as beating tones; and, conversely, tones\ncan be dissonant when the possibility of beats is removed.\nBriefly, it is possible to make beats without dissonance,\nand dissonance without beats.\n\nThe other explanation makes consonance due to the identity\nof partial tones.  When two tones have one or more partial\ntones in common they are said to be related; the amount\nof identity gives the degree of relationship.  Physiologically,\none or more basilar membrane fibres are excited by both, and\nthis fact gives the positive feeling of relationship or\nconsonance.  Of course the obvious objection to this view\nis that the two tones should be felt as differently consonant\nwhen struck on instruments which give different partial tones,\nsuch as organ and piano, while in fact they are not so felt.\n\nBut it is not after all essential to the aesthetics of music\nthat the physiological basis of harmony should be fully\nunderstood.  The point is that certain tones do indeed seem to\nbe \"preordained to congruity,\" preordained either in their\nphysical constitution or their physiological relations, and not\nto have achieved congruity by use or custom.  Consonance is an\nimmediate and fundamental impression,--psychologically an\nultimate fact.  That it is ultimate is emphasized by Stumpf<1>\nin his theory of Fusion.  Consonance is fusion, that is, unitary\nimpression.  Fusion is not identical with inability to distinguish\ntwo tones from each other in a chord, although this may be used\nas a measure of fusion.  Consonance is the feeling of unity, and\nfusion is the mutual relation of tones which gives that feeling.\n\n<1> _Beitrage zur Akustik u. Musikwissenschaft_, Heft I,\nKonsonanz u. Dissonanz, 1898.\n\nThe striking fact of modern music is the principle of tonality.\nTonality is said to be present in a piece of music when every\nelement in it is referred to, gets its significance from its\nrelation to, a fundamental tone, the tonic.  The tonic is the\nbeginning and lowest note in the scale in question, and all\nnotes and chords are understood according to their place in\nthat scale.  But the conception of the scale of course does not\ncover the ground, it merely furnishes the point of departure,--\nthe essential is in the reference of every element to the\nfundamental tone.  The tonic is the centre of gravity of a\nmelody.\n\nThe feeling of tonality grew up as follows.  Every one was\nreferred to a fundamental, whether or not it made with it an\nharmonious interval.  The fundamental was imaged TOGETHER WITH\nevery other note, and when a group of such references often\nappeared together, the feelings bound up with the single\nreference (interval-feelings) fused into a single feeling,--\nthe tonality-feeling.  When this point is once reached, it is\nclear that every tone is heard not as itself alone, but in its\nrelations; it is not that we judge of tonality, it is a direct\nimpression, based on a psychological principle that we have\nalready touched on in the theory of rhythm.  The tonality-\nfeeling is a feeling of form, or motor image, just as the\nshape of objects is a motor image.  We do not now need to go\nthrough all possible experiences in relation to these objects,\nwe POSSESS their form in a system of motor images, which are\nthemselves only motor cues for coordinated movements.  So\nevery tone is felt as something at a certain distance from,\nwith a certain relation to, another tone which is dimly\nimagined.  In following a melody, the notes are able to belong\ntogether for us by virtue of the background of the tone to\nwhich they are related, and in terms of which they are heard.\nThe tonality is indeed literally a \"funded content,\"--that is,\na funded capital of relation.\n\nThese are the general facts of tonality.  But what is its\nmeaning for the nature of music?  Why should all notes be\nreferred to one?  Is this, too, an ultimate psychological fact?\nIn answer there may be pointed out the original basic quality\nof certain tones, and the desire we have to return to them.\nOf two successive tones, it is always the one which is, in the\nratio of their vibration rates, a power of two, with which we\nwish to end.<1>  When neither of two successive tones contains\na power of two, we have no preference as to the ending.  Thus\ndenoting any tone by 1, it is always to 1 or 2, or 2n that we\nwish to return, from any other possible tone; while 3 and 5, 5\nand 7, leave us indifferent as to their succession.  In general,\nwhen two tones are related, as 2n:3, 5, 7, 9, 15--in which 2n\ndenotes every power of two, including 2o=1, with the progression\nfrom the first to the second, there is bound up a tendency to\nreturn to the first.  Thus the fundamental fact of melodic\nsequence may be said to be the primacy of 2 in vibration rates.\nBut 2n, in a scale containing 3, 5, etc., is always what we\nknow as the tonic.  The tonic, then, gives a sense of\nequilibrium, of rest, of finality, while to end on another tone\ngives a feeling of restlessness or striving.\n\nNow tone-relationship alone, it is clear, would not of itself\ninvolve this immediate impulse to end a sequence of notes on\none rather than on another.  Nor is tonality, in the all-\npervasive sense in which we understand it, a characteristic of\nancient, or of mediaeval music, while the tendency to end on a\ncertain tone, which we should to-day call the tonic, was always\nfelt.  Thus, since complete tonality was developed late in the\nhistory of music, while the closing on the tonic was certainly\nprior to it, the finality of the tonic would seem to be the\nprimary fact, out of which the other has been developed.\n\nWe speak to-day, for instance, of dissonant chords, which call\nfor a resolution--and are inclined to interpret them as\ndissonant just because they do so call.  But the desire for\nresolution is historically much later than the distinction\nbetween consonance and dissonance....  \"What we call resolution\nis not change from dissonant to consonant IN GENERAL, but the\ntransition of definite tones of a dissonant interval into\nDEFINITE TONES of a consonant.\"<1>  The dissonance comes from\nthe device of getting variety, in polyphonic music, by letting\nsome parts lag behind, and the discords which arose while they\nwere catching up were resolved in the final coming together;\nbut the STEPS were all PREDETERMINED.<2>  Resolution was\ninevitably implied by the very principle on which the device\nis founded.  That is, the understanding of a chord as something\nTO BE RESOLVED, is indeed part of the feeling of tonality; but\nthe ending on the tonic was that out of which this resolution-\nfeeling grew.\n\n<1> Stumpf, op. Cit., p. 33.\n<2> Grove, _Dict. Of Music and Musicians_.  Art. \"Resolution.\"\n\nMust we, then, say that the finality  of the tonic is a unique, inexplicable phenomenon?  giving up the nature of melody as a\nproblem if not insoluble, at least unsolved?\n\nThe feeling of finality in the return to 2n is explained by\nLipps and his followers, from the fact that the two-division\nis most natural, and so tones of 2n vibrations would have the\ncharacter of rest and equilibrium.  This explanation might hold\nif we were ever conscious of the two-division as such, in tones\n--which we are not; so that it would seem to depend on the\nrestful character of a perception which by hypothesis is never\npresent to the mind at all.\n\nThe experience is, on the contrary, immediate,--an impression,\nnot a perception; and this immediacy points to the one ultimate\nfact in musical feeling we have so far discovered.  The whole\ndevelopment of the scale, and the complex feeling of tonality,\nis an expression of the desire for consonance.  Every change\nand correction in the scale has gone to make every note more\nconsonant with its neighbors.  And naturally the tonic is the\ntone with which all other tones have the most unity.  Now this\n\"return\" phenomenon is a simpler case of the desire for the\nfeeling of unity.  The tonic is the epitome of all the most\nperfect feelings of consonance or unity which are possible in\nany particular sequence of tones, and is therefore the goal\nor resting-place after an excursion.  The undoubted feeling\nof equilibrium or repose which we have in ending on the tonic\nis thus explained.  Not that consonance itself, the feeling of\nunity, is explained.  But at any rate consonance is the root\nof the \"return,\" and of its development into complete tonality.\n\nThe history of music is then the explicit development of\nacoustic laws implicit in every stage of musical feeling.  That\nfeeling covers an ever wider field.  When Mr. Hadow says that\nthe terms concord and discord are wholly relative to the ear\nof the listener,<1> and that the distinction between them is\nnot to be explained on any mathematical basis, or by any a\npriori law of acoustics,--that it is not because a minor\nsecond is ugly that we dislike it, for it will be a concord\nsome day,--he is only partly right.  The minor second may be\na \"concord,\" that is, we may like it, some day; but that will\nbe because w have extended our feeling of tonality to include\nthe minor second.  When that day comes the minor second will\nbe so closely linked with other fully consonant combinations\nthat we shall hear it in terms of them, just as to-day we\nhear the chord of the dominant seventh in terms of its\nresolution.  But the basis will not be convention or custom,\nexcept in so far as custom is the unfolding of natural law.\nThe course of music, like that of every other art, is away\nfrom arbitrary--though simple--convention, to a complexity\nwhich satisfies the natural demands of the organism.  The\n\"natural persuasion\" of the ear is omnipotent.\n\n<1> W.H. Hadow, _Studies in Modern Music_, 1893.\n\n\nV\n\nIt has been said that the feeling of tonality is a motor image\nor \"form-quality\" and that the image of the tonic persists\nthroughout every sequence of tones in a melody.  Now these are\nnot only felt as having a certain relation to the tonic; that\nrelation is an active one.  It was said that we had a positive\ndesire to end on a certain tone, and that a tendency to pass\nto that tone was bound up with the hearing of another tone.\nThe degree of this tendency is determined by their relation.\nThe key, the tonality, is determined by the consensus of\nintervals which have been felt as more or less consonant.\nThen steps in this scale which come near to the great salient\npoints--that is, the points of greatest consonance, which is\nunity, which is rest--are felt as suggesting them.  This is\nthe reason why a semitone progression is felt as so compelling.\nIn taking the scale upward, C to C', that element in the tone-\nSpace already clearly foreshadowed by the previous tones is C';\nB is so near that it is almost C'--it seems to cry aloud to be\ncompleted by C'.  Then the tendency to move from B to C' is\nespecially strong.  In the same way a chromatic note suggests\nmost strongly the salient point in the scheme to which it is\nnearest--and \"tends\" to it as to a point of comparative rest.\nThe difference between the major and minor scales may be found\nin the lesser definiteness<1> with which the tendency to\nprogression, in the latter, is felt--\"a condition of hovering,\na kind of ambiguity, of doubt, to which side the movement\nshall proceed.\"  We may then understand a melody as ever tending\nwith various degrees of urgency, of strain, to its centre of\ngravity, the tonic.\n\n<1> F. Weinmann, _Zeitschr. f. Psychol._, Bd. 35, p. 360.\n\nIt is from this point of view that we can see the cogency of\nGurney's remark, that when music seems to be yearning for\nunutterable things, it is really yearning only for the next\nnote.  \"In this step from the state of rest into movement and\nreturn, the coming again to rest; on what circuitous ways,\nwith what reluctances and hesitations; whether quick and\ndecisively or gradually and unnoticed--therein consists the\nnature of melody.\"<1>\n\n<1> Weinmann, op. cit.\n\nOr in Gurney's more eloquent description, \"The melody may begin\nby pressing its way through a sweetly yielding resistance to a\ngradually foreseen climax; whence again fresh expectation is\nbred, perhaps for another excursion, as it were, round the same\ncentre but with a bolder and freer sweep,...to a point where\nagain the motive is suspended on another temporary goal; till\nafter a certain number of such involutions and evolutions, and\nof delicately poised leanings and reluctances and yieldings,\nthe forces so accurately measured just suffice to bring it home,\nand the sense of potential and coming integration which has\nunderlain all our provisional adjustments of expectation is\ntriumphantly justified.\"<1>\n\n<1> Op. cit., p. 165.\n\nThis should not be taken as a more or less poetical account\nunder the metaphor of motion.  These \"leanings\" are literal\nin the sense that one note does imply another as its natural\ncomplement and satisfaction and we seek to reach or make it.\nThe striving is an intrinsic element, not a by-product for our\nunderstanding.\n\nThere is another point to note.  The \"sense of potential and\ncoming integration\" is a strong factor of melody.  If it cannot\nbe said that the first note implies the last, it is at least\ntrue that from point to point the next step is dimly foreseen,\nand this effect is cumulative.  If melody is an ever-hindered\nstriving for the goal, at least the hindrances themselves are\nstations on the way, each one as overcome adding to the final\nmomentum with which the goal is reached.  It is like an\naccumulation of evidence, a constellation of associations.  AB\nforetells C; but ABCDEF rushes yet more strongly upon G.  So\nit is that the irresistibleness, the \"unalterable rightness\"\nof a piece of music increases from beginning to end.\n\nThe significance of this essential internal necessity of\nprogression cannot be overestimated.  The unalterable rightness\nof music is founded on natural acoustic laws, and this\n\"rightness\" is fundamental.  A melody is not right because it\nis beautiful, it is beautiful because it is right.  The natural\ntendencies point out different paths to the goal; and thus\ndifferent ways of being beautiful; but the nature of the\nrelation between point and point, the nature of the progression,\nthat is, the nature of melody, is the same.\n\nUp to this point we have consistently abstracted from the\nelement of rhythm in melody.  Strictly speaking, however, it\nis impossible to do so.  The individuality of a melody is\nabsolutely dependent on its rhythm, that is, on the relative\ntime-value of its tones.  Gurney has devoted some amusing pages\nto showing the trivial, dragging, lustreless tunes that result\nfrom ever so slight a change in the rhythm of noble themes, or\neven in the distribution of rhythmical elements within the bar.\nThe reason for this is evident.  The nature of melody in the\nsense of sequence consists in the varied answers to the demands\nof the ear as felt at each successive point.  Now it is clear\nthat such \"answer\" can be emphasized, given indifferently, held\nin suspense, in short, subjected to all kinds of variation as\nwell by the rhythmical form into which it is cast, as by the\ndifferent choice of possibilities for the tone itself.  The\nrhythm helps out the melody not only by adding to it an\nindependently pleasing element, but, and this is indeed the\nessential, by reinforcing the intrinsic relations of the notes\nthemselves.  Thus it is in the highest degree true that in\nmelody and rhythm we do not have content and form, but that,\nstrictly speaking, the melody is tone-sequence in rhythm.\n\nThe intimate bondage of tone-sequence and rhythm is grounded\nin the identity of their inner nature; both are varieties of\nthe objective conditions of embodied expectation.  It is not\nof the essence of music to satisfy explicit and conscious\nexpectation--to satisfy the understanding.  It meets on the\ncontrary a subconscious, automatic need which becomes conscious\nonly in the moment of its contenting.  Every moment of progress\nin a beautiful melody is hailed like an instinctive action\nperformed for the first time.  Rhythm is the ideal satisfaction\nof attention in general with all its bodily concomitants and\nexpressions.  Tone-sequence is the satisfaction of attention\ndirected to auditory demands.  But the form-quality of rhythm,\nthe form-quality of tonality, is an all but subconscious\npossession.  Together, reinforcing each other in melody, they\nfurnish the ideal arrangement of the most poignant of sense-\nstimulations.\n\n\nVI\n\nIt is strange that those who would accept the general facts of\nmusical logic as outlined above do not perceive that they have\nthereby cut away the ground from under the feet of the \"natural\nlanguage\" argument.  If the principle of choice in the progress\nof a melody is tone-relationship, the principle of choice cannot\nalso be the cadences of the speaking voice.  That musical\nintervals often RECALL the speaking voice is another matter, as\nwe have said, and to this it may be added that they much more\noften do not.  The question here is only of the primacy of the\nprinciple.  Thus it would seem that the facts of musical structure\nconstitute in themselves a refutation of the view we have disputed.\nTo say that music arose in \"heightened speech\" is irrelevant; for\nthe occasion of an aesthetic phenomenon is never its cause.  It\nmight as well be said that music arose in economic conditions,--\nas indeed Grosse, in his \"Anfange der Kunst,\" conclusively shows,\nwithout attempting to make this social occasion intrude into the\nnature of the phenomenon.  Primitive decorative art arose in the\nimitation of the totemic or clan symbols, mostly animal forms;\nbut we have seen that the aesthetic quality of the decoration is\ndue to the demands of the eye, and appears fully only in the\ncomparative degradation of the representative form.  In exactly\nthe same way might we consider the \"degradation\" of speech\ncadences into real music,--supposing this were really the origin\nof music.  As a matter of fact, however, the best authorities\nseem to be agreed that the primitive \"dance-song\" was rather a\nmonotonous, meaningless chant, and that the original pitch-\nelements were mechanically supplied by the first musical\ninstruments; these being at first merely for noise, and becoming\ntruly vibrating, sonorous bodies because they were more easily\nstruck if they were hard or taut.  The musical tones which these\nhard vibrating bodies gave out were the first determinations of\npitch, and of the elements of the scale, which correspond to the\nnatural partial vibrations of such bodies.  \"The human voice,\"\nWallaschek<1> tells us, \"equally admits of any pentatonic or\nheptatonic intervals, and very likely we should never have got\nregular scales if we had depended upon the ear and voice only.\nThe first unique cause to settle the type of a regular scale is\nthe instrument.\"  To this material we have to apply only that\n\"natural persuasion of the ear\" which we have already explained,\nto account for the full development of music.\n\n<1> _Primitive Music_, 1893, p. 156.\n\nThe beauty of music, in so far as beauty is identical with\npleasantness, consists in its satisfaction of the demands of\nthe ear, and of the whole psychophysical organism as connected\nwith the ear.  It is now time to return to a thread dropped at\nthe beginning. It was said that a common way of settling the\nmusical experience was to make musical beauty the object of\nperception, and musical expression the object, or source, of\nemotion.  This view seems to attach itself to all shades of\ntheory.  Hanslick always contrasts intellectual activity as\nattaching to the form, and emotion as attaching to the sensuous\nmaterial (that is, the physical effects of motion, loud or\nsoft sound, tempo, etc.).  He speaks of the aesthetic criterion\nof INTELLIGENT gratification.  \"The truly musical listener\" has\n\"his attention absorbed by the particular form and character of\nthe composition,\" \"the unique position which the INTELLECTUAL\nELEMENT in music occupies in relation to FORMS and SUBSTANCE\n(subject).\"  M. Dauriac in the same way separates the emotion\nof music<1> as a product of nervous excitations, from the\nappreciation of it as beautiful.  \"It is probably that the\npleasure caused by rhythm and color prevails with a pretty\nlarge number, with the greatest number, over the pleasure in\nthe musical form, pleasure too exclusively PSYCHOLOGICAL for\none to be content with it alone....The musical sense implies\nthe intelligence....The theory...applies to a great number of\nsonorous sensations, and not at all to any musical perceptions.\"\nMr. W.H. Hadow<2> tells us that it is the duty of the musician\nnot to flatter the sense with an empty compliment of sound,\nbut to reach through sensation to the mental faculties within.\nAnd again we read \"the art of the composer is in a sense the\ndiscovery and exposition of the INTELLIGIBLE relations in the\nmultifarious material at his command.\"<3>\n\n<1> \"Le Plaisir et l'Emotion Musicale,\" _Rev. Philos._, Tome\n42, No. 7.\n<2> Op. cit., p. 47.\n<3> Grove's _Dict._  Art. \"Relationship.\"\n\nNow it is not hard to see how this antithesis has come about.\nBut that the work of a master is always capable of logical\nanalysis does not prove that our apprehension of it is a\nlogical act.  And the preceding discussion has wholly failed\nto make its point, if it is not now clear that the musical\nexperience is an impression and not a judgment; that the feeling\nof tonality is not a judgment of tonality, and that though the\naesthetic enjoyment of music extends only to those limits within\nwhich the feeling of tonality is active, that feeling is more\nlikely than not to be quite unintelligible to the listener.\nIndeed, if it were not so, we should have to restrict, by\nhypothesis, the enjoyment of music to those able to give a\ntechnical report of what they hear,--which is notoriously at\nodds with the facts.  That psychologist is quite right who\nholds<1> that psychology, in laying down a principle explaining\nthe actual effect of a musical piece, is not justified in\nconfining itself to skilled musicians and taking no notice of\nmore than nine tenths of those who listen to the piece.  But on\nthe understanding that the tonality-feeling acts subconsciously,\nthat our satisfaction with the progression of notes is unexplained\nby the laws of acoustics and association, we are enabled to bring\nwithin the circle of those who have the musical experience even\nthose nine tenths whose intellects are not actively participant.\n\n<1> Lazarus, _Das Leben der Seele_, ii, p. 323.\n\nThe fact is that musical form, in the sense of structure, balance,\nsymmetry, and proportion in the arrangement of phrases, and in\nthe contrasting of harmonies and keys, is different from the\nmusical form which is felt intimately, intrinsically, as the\ndesired, the demanded progress from one note to another.  Structure\nis indeed perceived, understood, enjoyed as an orderly unified\narrangement.  Form is felt as an immediate joy.  Structure it is\nwhich many critics have in mind when they speak of form, and it\nis the confusion between the two which makes such an antithesis\nof musical beauty and sensuous material possible. The real\nmusical beauty, it is clear, is in the melodic idea; in the\nsequence of tones which are indissolubly one, which are felt\ntogether, one of which cannot exist without the other.  Musical\nbeauty is in the intrinsic musical form.  And yet here, too, we\nmust admit, that, in the last analysis, structure and form need\nnot be different.  The perfect structure will be such a unity\nthat it, too, will be FELT as one--not only \"the orderly\ndistribution of harmonies and keys in such a manner that the\nmind can realize the concatenation as a complete and distinct\nwork of art.\"  The ideal musical consciousness would have an\nideally great range; it would not only realize the concatenation,\nbut it would take it in as one takes in a single phrase, a simple\ntune, retaining it from first not to last.  The ordinary musical\nconsciousness has merely a much shorter breath.  It can \"feel\"\nan air, a movement; it cannot \"feel\" a symphony, it can only\nperceive the relation of keys and harmonies therein.  With\nrepeated hearing, study, experience, this span of beauty may be\nindefinitely extended--in the individual, as in the race.  But\nno one will deny that the direct experience of beauty, the\nsingle aesthetic thrill, is measured exactly by the length of\nthis span.  It is only genius--hearer or composer--who can\noperate \"a longue haleine.\"\n\nSo it is that we must understand the development in musical\nform from the cut and dried sonata form to the wayward yet\ninfinitely greater beauty of Beethoven; and thence to the\n\"free forms\" of modern music.  \"Infinite melody\" is a\ncontradiction in terms, because when the first term cannot\nbe present in consciousness with the last there is nothing to\ncontrol and direct the progression; and our musical memory is\nlimited.  Yet we can conceive, theoretically, the possibility\nof an indefinite widening of the memory.\n\nIt was on some such grounds as these that Poe laid down his\nfamous \"Poetic Principle,\"--that a long poem does not exist;\nthat \"a long poem\" is simply a flat contradiction in terms.\nHe says, indeed, that because \"elevating excitement,\" the end\nof a poem, is \"through a psychical necessity\" transient,\ntherefore no poem should be longer than the natural term of\nsuch excitement.  It is clearly possible to substitute for\n\"elevating excitement,\" immediate musical feeling of the\nindividual.  What is the meaning of \"feeling,\" \"impression,\"\nhere?  It is the power of entering into a Gestaltsqualitat--\na motor group, a scheme in which every element is the\nmechanical cue to the following.  Beauty ceases for the hearer\nwhere this carrying power, the \"funded capital\" of tone-\nlinkings ceases.  In just the same way, if rhythm were a\nperception rather than an impression, we ought to be able to\napprehend a rhythm of which the unit periods were hours.  Yet\nwe may so bridge over the moments of beauty in experience that\nwe are enabled, without stretching to a breaking-point, to\nspeak of a symphony or an opera as a single beautiful work of\nart.\n\n\nVII\n\nBut what of the difficulties which such a theory must meet?\nThe most obvious one is the short life of musical works.  If\nmusical beauty is founded in natural laws, why does music so\nquickly grow old?  The answer is that music is a phenomenon\nof expectation as founded on these natural laws.  It is the\ntendency of one note to progress to another which is the basis\nof the vividness of our experience.  We expect, indeed, what\nbelongs objectively to the development of a melody, but only\nthat particular variety of progression to which we have become\naccustomed.  So it is that music which presents only the old,\nsimple progressions gives the greatest sense of ease, but the\nleast sense of effort--the ideal motion not being hindered on\nits way.  Intensity, vividness, would be felt where the\nprogression is less obvious, but felt as \"fitting in\" when it\nis once made; and where it is not obvious at all--where the\nlink is not felt, a sense of dissatisfaction and restlessness\narises.  So it is with music which we know by heart.  It is\nnot that we know each note, and so expect it, but that it is\nfelt as necessarily issuing out of the preceding.  A piece of\npoor music, really heterogeneous and unconnected, might be\nthoroughly familiar, and yet never, in this sense, felt as\nSATISFYING expectation.  In the same way, music in which the\nprogressions were germane to the existing tonality-feeling,\nwhile still not absolutely obvious, would not be less quickening\nto the musical sense, even if learned by heart.  It is clear\nthat there is an external and an internal expectation--one,\nimposed by memory, for the particular piece; the other constituted\npartly by intrinsic internal relations, partly by the degree to\nwhich these internal relations have been exploited.  That is,\nthe possibility of musical expectation, and pleasure in its\nsatisfaction, is conditioned by the possession of a tonality-\nfeeling which covers the constituents of the piece of music, but\nwhich has not become absolutely mechanical in its action.  Just\nas rhythm needs an obstacle to make the structure felt, so\nmelody needs some variation from the obvious set of relations\nalready won and possessed.  If that possession is too complete,\nthe melody becomes as stale and uninteresting as would a 3-4\nrhythm without a change or a break.\n\nThe test of genius in music, of the width and depth of mastery,\nis to be able to become familiar without ceasing to be strange.\nOn the other hand, if in music to be great is always to be\nmisunderstood, it is no less true, here as elsewhere, that to\nbe misunderstood is not always to be great.  And music may be\nmerely strange, and pass into oblivion, without ever having\npassed that stage of surprised and delighted acceptance which\nis the test of its truth to fundamental laws.\n\nBut how shall music advance?  How shall it set out to win new\nrelations?  It is at least conceivable that it takes the method\nof another art which we have just studied.  To get new beauties,\nit does not say,--Go to, I will add to the beauties I already\nhave!  It makes new occasions, and by way of these finds the\nimpulse it seeks.  Renoir paints the baigneuse of Montmartre,\nand finds \"the odd, beautiful huddle of lines\" in so doing;\nRodin portrays ever new subtleties of situation and mood, and\nby way of these comes most naturally to \"the unedited poses.\"\nSo a musician, we may imagine, comes to new and strange\nutterances by way of a new and strange motion or cry that he\nimitates.  Out of the various bents and impulses that these\ngive him he chooses the ones that chance to be beautiful.  And\nin time these new beauties have become worn away like the trite\nmetaphors that are now no longer metaphors, but part of the\n\"funded capital.\"  That was a ridiculous device of Schumann's,\nwho found a motif for one of his loveliest things by using the\nletters of his temporary fair one's name--A B E G G; but it\nmay not be so utterly unlike the procedure by which music grows.\n\n\nVIII\n\nBut what provision must be made for the emotions of music?  It\ncannot be that the majority of musicians, who are strangely\nenough the very ones to insist that music is merely the\nlanguage of emotion, are utterly and essentially wrong.  Nor\nhas it been attempted to prove them so.  The beauty of music,\nwe have sought to show, grows and flowers out of tone-relations\nalone, consists in tone-sequences alone.  But it has not been\nsaid that music did not arouse emotion, nor that it might not\non occasion even express it.\n\nIt is in fact now rather a commonplace in musical theory, to\nshow the emotional means which music has at its command; and\nI shall therefore be very brief in my reference to them.  They\nmay be shortly classed as expressive by association and by\ndirect induction.  Expressive by association are passages of\ndirect imitation: the tolling of bells, the clash of arms, the\nroar of wind, the hum of spinning wheels, even to the bleating\nof sheep and the whirr of windmills; the cadence of the voice\nin pleading, laughter, love; from such imitations we are\nREMINDED of a fact or an emotion.  More intimate is the\nexpression by induction; emotion is aroused by activities\nwhich themselves form part of the emotions in question.  Thus\nthe differences in tempo, reproduced in nervous response, call\nup the gayety, sadness, hesitation, firmness, haste, growing\nexcitement, etc., of which whole experiences these movement\ntypes form a part.\n\nThese emotions, as has often been shown, are absolutely\ngeneral and indefinite in their character, and are, on the\nwhole, even in their intensity, no measure of the beauty of\nthe music which arouses them.  Indeed, we can get intense\nemotion from sound which is entirely unmusical.  So, too,\nloudness, softness, crescendo, diminuendo, volume, piercingness,\nhave their emotional accompaniments.  It is to Hanslick that\nwe owe the general summing up of these possibilities of\nexpression as \"the dynamic figures of occurrences.\"  How\nthis dynamic skeleton is filled out through association, or\nthat special form of association which we know as direct\ninduction, is not hard to understand on psychological grounds.\nIt is not necessary to repeat here the reasons for the literally\n\"moving\" appeal of sound-stimulations, which have been already\ndetailed under the subject of rhythm.\n\nYet there still remains a residue of emotion not entirely\naccounted for.  It has been said that these, the emotions\nexpressed, or aroused, are more or less independent of the\nintrinsic musical beauty.  But it cannot be denied that there\nis an intense emotion which grows with the measure of the\nbeauty of a piece of music, and which music lovers are yet\nloth to identify with the so-called general aesthetic emotion,\nor with the \"satisfaction of expectation,\" different varieties\nof which, in fusion, we have tried to show as the basis of the\nmusical experience.  The aesthetic emotion from a picture is\nnot like this, they say, and a mere satisfaction of expectation\nis unutterably tame.  This is unique, aesthetic, individual!\n\nI believe that the clue to this objection in the natural impulse\nof mankind to confuse the intensity of an experience with a\ndifference in kind.  But first of all, there must be added to\nour list of definite emotions from music, those which attach\nthemselves to the internal relations of the notes.  Gurney has\nsaid that when we feel ourselves yearning for the next\nunutterable, we are really yearning for the next note.  That\nis the secret!  Each one of those tendencies, demands, leanings,\nstrivings, returns, as between tone and tone in a melody, is\nnecessarily accompanied by the feeling-tone which belongs to\nsuch an attitude.  And it is to be noted that all the more\npoignant emotions we get from music are always stated in terms\nof urgency, of strain, of effort.  That is because these\nemotions, and these alone, are inescapable in music since they\nare founded on the intrinsic relations of the notes themselves.\nIt is just for this reason, too, that music, just in proportion\nto its beauty, is felt, as some one says, like vinegar on a\nwound, by those in grief or anxiety.\n\n   \"I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong\n    Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes.\"\n\nIt is the yearning that is felt most strongly, the more vividly\nare the real musical relations of the notes brought out.\n\nMusic expresses and causes tension, strain, yearning, through\nits inner, its \"absolute\" nature.  But it does more; it satisfies\nthese yearnings.  It not only creates an expectation to satisfy\nit, but the expectation itself is of a poignant, emotional,\npersonal character.  What is the emotion that is aroused by such\na satisfaction?\n\nThe answer to this question takes us back again to that old\npicturesque theory of Schopenhauer--that music is the\nobjectification of the will.  Schopenhauer meant this in a\nmetaphysical, and to us an inadmissible sense; but I believe\nthat the psychological analysis of the musical experience which\nwe have just completed shows that there is another sense in\nwhich it is absolutely true.\n\nThe best psychological theory of the experience of volition\nmakes it the imaging of a movement or action, followed by\nfeelings of strain, and then of the movement carried out.\nThe anticipation is the essential.  Without anticipation, as\nin the reflex, winking, the action appears involuntary.\nWithout the feeling of effort or strain, as in simply raising\nthe empty hand, the self-feeling is weaker.  When all these\nthree elements, IMAGE, EFFORT, SUCCESS, are present most\nvividly, the feeling is of triumphant volition.  Now my thesis\nis--the thesis toward which every though of the preceding has\npointed--that the fundamental facts of the musical experience\nare supremely fitted to bring about the illusion and the\nexaltation of the triumphant will.\n\nThe image, dimly foreshadowed, is given in the half-consciousness\nof each note as it appears, and in that sense of coming\nintegration already recognized.  The proof is the shock and\ndisappointment when the wrong note is sounded; if we had not\nsome anticipation of the right, the wrong one would not shock.\nThe strain we have in the effort of the organism to reach the\nnote, the tendency to which is implicit in the preceding.  The\nsuccess is given in the coming of the note itself.\n\nAll this is no less true of rhythm--but there the expectation\nis more mechanical, less conscious, as has been fully shown.\nThe more beautiful, that is, the more inevitably, irresistibly\nright the music, the more powerful the influence to this illusion\nof the triumphant will.  The exaltation of musical emotion is\nthus the direct measure of the perfection of the relations--the\nbeauty of the music.  This, then, is the only intimate, immediate,\nintrinsic emotion of music--the illusion of the triumphant will!\n\nOne word more on the interpretation of music in general aesthetic\nterms.  All that has been said goes to show that music possesses\nto the very highest degree the power of stimulation.  Can we\nattribute to it repose in any other sense than that of satisfying\na desire that it arouses?  We can do so in pointing out that\nmusic ever returns upon itself--that its motion is cyclic.  Music\nis the art of auditory implications; but more than this, its\nlast note returns to its first.  It is as truly a unity as if\nit were static.  We may say that the beauty of a picture is only\nentered into when the eye has roved over the whole canvas, and\nholds all the elements indirectly while it is fixated upon one\npoint.  In exactly the same way music is not beauty unless it\nis ALL there; at every point a fusion of the heard tone with\nthe once heard tones in the order of their hearing.  The melody,\nas a set of implications, is as ESSENTIALLY timeless as the\npicture.  By melody too, then, is given the perfect moment, the\nmoment of unity and completeness, of stimulation and repose.\n\nThe aesthetic emotion for music is then the favorable stimulation\nof the sense of hearing and those other senses that are bound up\nwith it, together with the repose of perfect unity.  It has a\nricher color, a more intense exaltation in the illusion of the\ntriumphant will, which is indeed the peculiar moment for the\nself in action.\n\n\n\nVI\nTHE BEAUTY OF LITERATURE\n\nVI\nTHE BEAUTY OF LITERATURE\n\nI\n\nTHAT in the practice and pleasure of art for art's sake there\nlurks an unworthy element, is a superstition that recurs in\nevery generation of critics.  A most accomplished and modern\ndisciple of the gay science but yesterday made it a reproach\nto the greatest living English novelist, that he, too, was\nall for beauty, all for art, and had no great informing\npurpose.  \"Art for art's sake\" is clearly, to this critic's\nmind, compatible with the lack of something all desirable for\nnovels.  Yet if there is indeed a characteristic excellence\nof the novel, if there is something the lack of which in a\nnovel is rightly deplored, then the real art for art's sake\nis bound to include this characteristic excellence.  If an\ninforming purpose is needed, no true artist can dispense\nwith it.  Otherwise art for art's sake is a contradiction\nin terms.\n\nThe critic I have quoted merely voices the lingering Puritan\ndistrust of beauty as an end in itself, and so repudiates\nthe conception of beauty as containing all the excellences\nof a work of art.  He thinks of beauty as cut up into small\nsnips and shreds of momentary sensations; as the sweet sound\nof melodious words and cadences; or as something abstract,\npattern-like, imposed from without,--a Procrustes-bed of\nsymmetry and proportion; or as a view of life Circe-like,\ninsidious, a golden languor, made of \"the selfish serenities\nof wild-wood and dream-palace.\"  All these, apart or\ntogether, are thought of as the \"beauty,\" at which the\nartist \"for art's sake\" aims, and to that is opposed the\nnobler informing purpose.  But the truer view of beauty\nmakes it simply the epitome of all which a work of art ought\nto be, and thus the only end and aim of every work of art.\nThe beauty of literature receives into itself all the\nprecepts of literature:  there is no \"ought\" beyond it.\nAnd art for art's sake is but art conscious of its aim, the\nproduction of that all-embracing beauty.\n\nWhat, then, is the beauty of literature?  How may we know\nits characteristic excellences?  It is strange how, in all\nserious discussion, to the confounding of some current ideas\nof criticism, we are thrown back, inevitably, on this concept\nof excellence!  The most ardent of impressionists wakes up\nsooner or later to the idea that he has been talking values\nall his life.  The excellences of literature!  They must\nlie within the general formula for beauty, yet they must be\nconditioned by the possibilities of the special medium of\nliterature.  The general formula, abstract and metaphysical\nas it must be, may not be applied directly; for abstract\nthought will fit only that art which can convey it; hence\nthe struggle of theorists with painting, music, and\narchitecture, and the failure of Hegel, for instance, to\nshow how beauty as \"the expression of the Idea\" resides in\nthese arts.  But if the general formula is always translated\nrelatively to the sense-medium through which beauty must\nreach the human being, it may be preserved, while yet\naffirming all the special demands of the particular art.\nBeauty is a constant function of the varying medium.  The\nend of Beauty is always the same, the perfect moment of\nunity and self-completeness, of repose in excitement.  But\nthis end is attained by different means furnished by\ndifferent media:  through vision and its accompanying\nactivities; through hearing and its accompanying activities;\nand for literature, through hearing in the special sense\nof communication by word.  It is the nature of this medium\nthat we must further discover.\n\n\nII\n\nNow the word is nothing in itself; it is not sound primarily,\nbut thought.  The word is but a sign, a negligible quantity\nin human intercourse--a counter in which the coins are ideas\nand emotions--merely legal tender, of no value save in\nexchange.  What we really experience in the sound of a\nsentence, in the sight of a printed page, is a complex\nsequence of visual and other images, ideas, emotions, feelings,\nlogical relations, swept along in the stream of consciousness,\n--differing, indeed, in certain ways from daily experience,\nbut yet primarily of the web of life itself.  The words in\ntheir nuances, march, tempo, melody add certain elements to\nthis flood--hasten, retard, undulate, or calm it; but it is\nthe THOUGHT, the understood experience, that is the stuff of\nliterature.\n\nWords are first of all meanings, and meanings are to be\nunderstood and lived through.  We can hardly even speak of\nthe meaning of a word, but rather of what it is, directly,\nin the mental state that is called up by it.  Every definition\nof a word is but a feeble and distant approximation of the\nunique flash of experience belonging to that word.  It is not\nthe sound sensation nor the visual image evoked by the word\nwhich counts, but the whole of the mental experience, to\nwhich the word is but an occasion and a cue.  Therefore, since\nliterature is the art of words, it is the stream of thought\nitself that we must consider as the material of literature.\nIn short, literature is the dialect of life--as Stevenson\nsaid; it is by literature that the business of life is\ncarried on.  Some one, however, may here demur:  visual signs,\ntoo, are the dialect of life.  We understand by what we see,\nand we live by what we understand.  The curve of a line, the\ncrescendo of a note, serve also for wordless messages.  Why\nare not, then, painting and music the vehicles of experience,\nand to be judged first as evocation of life, and only\nafterward as sight and hearing?  This conceded, we are thrown\nback on that view of art as \"the fixed quantity of imaginative\nthought supplemented by certain technical qualities,--of\ncolor in painting, of sound in music, of rhythmical words in\npoetry,\" from which is has been the one aim of the preceding\narguments of this book to free us.\n\nThe holders of this view, however, ignore the history and\nsignificance of language.  Our sight and hearing are given\nto us prior to our understanding or use of them.  In a way,\nwe submit to them--they are always with us.  We dwell in\nthem through passive states, through seasons of indifference;\nmoreover when we see to understand, we do not SEE, and when\nwe hear to understand we do not hear.  Only shreds of\nsensation, caught up in our flight from one action to another,\nserve as signals for the meanings which concern us.  In\nproportion as action is prompt and effective, does the cue\nas such tend to disappear, until, in all matters of skill,\npiano-playing, fencing, billiard-playing, the sight or sound\nwhich serves as cue drops almost together out of consciousness.\nSo far as it is vehicle of information, it is no longer sight\nor sound as such--interest has devoured it.  But language\ncame into being to supplement the lacks of sight and sound.\nIt was created by ourselves, to embody all active outreaching\nmental experience, and it comes into particular existence to\nmeet an insistent emergency--a literally crying need.  In\nshort, it is CONSTITUTED by meanings--its essence is\ncommunication.  Sight and sound have a relatively independent\nexistence, and may hence claim a realm of art that is largely\nindependent of meanings.  Not so the art of words, which can\nbe but the art of meanings, of human experience alone.\n\nAnd yet again, were the evocation of life the means and\nmaterial of all art, that art in which the level of imaginative\nthought was low, the range of human experience narrow, would\ntake a low place in the scale.  What, then, of music and\narchitecture?  Inferior arts, they could not challenge\ncomparison with the poignant, profound, all-embracing art of\nliterature.  But this is patently not the fact.  There is no\nhierarchy of the arts.  We may not rank St. Paul's Cathedral\nbelow \"Paradise Lost.\"  Yet is the material of all experience\nis the material of all art, they must not only be compared,\nbut \"Paradise Lost\" must be admitted incomparably the\ngreater.  No--we may not admit that all the arts alike deal\nwith the material of expression.  The excellence of music\nand architecture, whatever it may be, cannot depend on this\nmaterial.  Yet by hypothesis it must be through the use of\nits material that the end of beauty is reached by every art.\nA picture has lines and masses and colors, wherewith to play\nwith the faculty of vision, to weave a spell for the whole man.\nBeauty is the power to enchant him through the eye and all\nthat waits upon it, into a moment of perfection.  Literature\nhas \"all thoughts, all passions, all delights\"--the treasury\nof life--to play with, to weave a spell for the whole man.\nBeauty in literature is the power to enchant him, through\nthe mind and heart, across the dialect of life, into a moment\nof perfection.\n\n\nIII\n\nThe art of letters, then, is the art whose material is life\nitself.  Such, indeed, is the implication of the approval\ntheories of style.  Words, phrases, sentences, chapters, are\nexcellent in so far as they are identical with thought in\nall its shades of feeling.  \"Economy of attention,\" Spencer's\nfamiliar phrase for the philosophy of style, his explanation\nof even the most ornate and extravagant forms, is but another\nname for this desired lucidity of the medium.  Pater, himself,\nan artist in the overlaying of phrases, has the same teaching.\n\"All the laws of good writing aim at a similar unity or\nidentity of the mind in all the processes by which the word is\nassociated to its import.  The term is right, and has its\nessential beauty, when it becomes, in a manner, what it\nsignifies, as with the names of simple sensations.\"<1>  He\nquotes therewith De Maupassant on Flaubert:  \"Among all the\nexpressions in the world, all forms and turns of expression,\nthere is but ONE--one form, one mode--to express what I want\nto say.\"  And adds, \"The one word for the one thing, the one\nthought, amid the multitude of words, terms, that might just\ndo: the problem of style was there!--the unique word, phrase,\nsentence, paragraph, essay, or song, absolutely proper to the\nsingle mental presentation or vision within.\"...\n\n<1> _Appreciations:  An Essay on Style._\n\nThought in words is the matter of literature; and words exist\nbut for thought, and get their excellence as thought; yet, as\nFlaubert says, the idea only exists by virtue of the form.\nThe form, or the word, IS the idea; that is, it carries along\nwith it the fringe of suggestion which crystallizes the floating\npossibility in the stream of thought.  A glance at the history\nof language shows how this must have been so.  Words in their\nfirst formation were doubtless constituted by their imitative\npower.  As Taine has said,<1> at the first they arose in contact\nwith the objects; they imitated them by the grimaces of mouth\nand nose which accompanied their sound, by the roughness,\nsmoothness, length, or shortness of this sound, by the rattle\nor whistle of the throat, by the inflation or contraction of\nthe chest.\n\n<1> H. Taine, _La Fontaine et ses Fables_, p. 288.\n\nThis primitive imitative power of the word survives in the\nso-called onomatapoetic words, which aim simply at reproducing\nthe sounds of nature.  A second order of imitation arises through\nthe associations of sensations.  The different sensations,\nauditory, visual, olfactory, tactile, motor, and organic have\ncommon qualities, which they share with other more complex\nexperiences; of form, as force or feebleness; of feeling, as\nharshness, sweetness, and so on.  It is, indeed, another case\nof the form-qualities to which we recurred so often in the\nchapter on music.  Clear and smooth vowels will give the\nimpression of volatility and delicacy; open, broad ones of\nelevation or extension (airy, flee; large, far).  The consonants\nwhich are hard to pronounce will give the impression of effort,\nof shock, of violence, of difficulty, of heaviness,--\"the round\nsquat turret, black as the fool's heart;\" those which are easy\nof pronunciation express ease, smoothness, fluidity, calm,\nlightness, (facile, suave, roulade);--\"lucent syrops, tinct with\ncinnamon,\" a line like honey on the tongue, of which physical\norgan, indeed, one becomes, with the word \"tinct,\" definitely\nconscious.\n\nIn fact, the main point to notice in the enumeration of the\nexpressive qualities of sounds, is that it is the movement in\nutterance which characterizes them.  That movement tends to\nreproduce itself in the hearer, and carries with it its feeling-\ntone of ease or difficulty, explosiveness or sweetness long\ndrawn out.  It is thus by a kind of sympathetic induction rather\nthan by external imitation that these words of the second type\nbecome expressive.\n\nFinally, the two moments may be combined, as in such a word as\n\"roaring,\" which is directly imitative of a sound, and by the\nmuscular activity it calls into play suggests the extended\nenergy of the action itself.\n\nThe stage in which the word becomes a mere colorless, algebraic\nsign of object or process never occurs, practically, for in any\ncase it has accumulated in its history and vicissitudes a fringe\nof suggestiveness, as a ship accumulates barnacles.  \"Words carry\nwith them all the meanings they have worn,\" says Walter Raleigh\nin his \"Essay on Style.\"  \"A slight technical implication, a\nfaint tinge of archaism in the common turn of speech that you\nemploy, and in a moment you have shaken off the mob that scours\nthe rutted highway, and are addressing a select audience of\nticket-holders with closed doors.\"  Manifold may be the\nimplications and suggestions of even a single letter.  Thus a\ncharming anonymous essay on the word \"Grey.\"  \"Gray is a quiet\ncolor for daylight things, but there is a touch of difference,\nof romance, even, about things that are grey.  Gray is a color\nfor fur, and Quaker gowns, and breasts of doves, and a gray\nday, and a gentlewoman's hair; and horses must be gray....Now\ngrey is for eyes, the eyes of a witch, with green lights in\nthem and much wickedness.  Gray eyes would be as tender and\nyielding and true as blue ones; a coquette must have eyes of\ngrey.\"\n\nWords do not have meanings, they ARE meanings through their\npower of direct suggestion and induction.  They may become\nwhat they signify.  Nor is this power confined to words alone;\non its possession by the phrase, sentence, or verse rests the\nwhole theory of style.  The short, sharp staccato, the bellowing\nturbulent, the swimming melodious circling sentence ARE truly\nwhat they mean, in their form as in the objective sense of\ntheir words.  The sound-values of rhythm and pace have been in\nother chapters fully dwelt upon; the expressive power of breaks\nand variations is worth noting also.  Of the irresistible\nsignificance of rhythm, even against content, we have an\nexample amusingly commented on by Mr. G.K. Chesterton in his\n\"Twelve Types.\"  \"He (Byron) may arraign existence on the most\ndeadly charges, he may condemn it with the most desolating\nverdict, but he cannot alter the fact that on some walk in a\nspring morning when all the limbs are swinging and all the\nblood alive in the body, the lips may be caught repeating:\n\n'Oh, there's not a joy the world can give like that it takes\n  away,\nWhen the glow of early youth declines in beauty's dull\n  decay.'\n\nThat automatic recitation is the answer to the whole pessimism\nof Byron.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nSuch, then, are some of the means by which language becomes\nidentical with thought, and most truly the dialect of life.\nThe genius will have ways, to which these briefly outlined\nones will seem crude and obvious, but they will be none the\nless of the same nature.  Shall we then conclude that the\nbeauty of literature is here? that, in the words of Pater,\nfrom the essay I have quoted, \"In that perfect justice (of\nthe unique word)...omnipresent in good work, in function at\nevery point, from single epithets to the rhythm of a whole\nbook, lay the specific, indispensable, very intellectual\nbeauty of literature, the possibility of which constitutes\nit a fine art.\"\n\nIn its last analysis, such a conception of literature amounts\nto the unimpeded intercourse of mind with mind.  Literature\nwould be a language which dispenses with gesture, facial\nexpression, tone of voice; which is, in its halts, accelerations\nand retardations, emphases and concessions, the apotheosis\nof conversation.  But this clearness,--in the sublime sense,\nincluding the ornate and the subtle,--this luminous lucidity,--\nis it not quite indeterminate?  Clearness is said of a medium.\nWHAT is it that shines through?\n\nWere this clearness the beauty we are seeking, whatever in\nthe world that wanted to get itself said, would, if it were\nperfectly said, become a final achievement of literature.  All\nthat the plain man looks for, we must think rightly, in poetry\nand prose, might be absent, and yet we should have to\nacknowledge its excellence.  Let us then consider this quality\nby which the words become what they signify as the specific\nbeauty rather of style than of literature; the mere refining\nof the gold from which the work of art has yet to be made.\nLanguage is the dialect of life; and the most perfect language\ncan be no more than the most perfect truth of intercourse.  It\nmust then be through the treatment of life, or the sense of\nlife itself, that we are somehow to attain the perfect moment\nof beauty.\n\nThe sense of life!  In what meaning are these words to be\ntaken?  Not the completest sense of all, because the essence\nof life is in personal responsibility to a situation, and this\nis exactly what in our experience of literature disappears.\nFirst of all, then, before asking how the moment of beauty is\nto be attained, we must see how it is psychologically possible\nto have a sense of life that is yet purged of the will to live.\n\nAll experience of life is a complication of ideas, emotions,\nand attitudes or impulses to action in varying proportions.\nThe sentiment of reality is constituted by our tendency to\ninterfere, to \"take a hand.\"  Sometimes the stage of our\nconsciousness is so fully occupied by the images of others\nthat our own reaction is less vivid.  Finally, all conditions\nand possibilities of reaction may be so minimized that the\nonly attitude possible is our acceptance or rejection of a\nworld in which such things can be.  What does it \"matter\" to\nme whether or not \"the old, unhappy, far-off things\" really\nhappened?  The worlds of the Borgias, of Don Juan, and of the\nRussian war stand on the same level of reality.  Aucassin and\nNicolette are as near to me as Abelard and Heloise.  For in\nrelation to these persons my impulse is NIL.  I submit to\nthem, I cannot change or help them; and because I have no\nimpulse to interfere, they are not vividly real to me.  And,\nin general, in so far as I am led to contemplate or to dwell\non anything in idea, in so far does my personal attitude tend\nto parallel this impersonal one toward real persons temporally\nor geographically out of reach.\n\nNow in literature all conditions tend to the enormous\npreponderance of the ideal element in experience.  My mind\nin reading is completely filled with ideas of the appearance,\nways, manners, and situation of the people concerned.  I leave\nthem a clear field.  My emotions are enlisted only as the\ninevitable fringe of association belonging to vivid ideas--\nthe ideas of their emotions.  So far as all the possibilities\nof understanding are fulfilled for me, so far as I am in\npossession of all the conditions, so far do I \"realize\" the\ncharacters, but realize them as ideas tinged with feeling.\n\nHere there will be asseverations to the contrary.  What! feel\nno real emotion over Little Nell, or Colonel Newcome? no\nemotion in that great scene of passion and despair, the parting\nof Richard Feverel and Lucy,--a scene which none can read save\nwith tight throat and burning eyes!  Even so.  It is not real\nemotion.  You have the vivid ideas, so vivid that a fringe of\nemotional association accompanies them, as you might shudder\nremembering a bad dream.  But the real emotion arises only\nfrom the real impulse, the real responsibility.\n\nThe sense of life that literature gives might be described as\nlife in its aspect as idea.  That this fact is the cause of\nthe peace and painlessness of literature--since it is by his\nactions, as Aristotle says, that man is happy or the reverse--\nneed not concern us here.  For the beauty of literature, and\nour joy in it, lie not primarily in its lack of power to hurt\nus.  The point is that literature gives none the less truly a\nsense of life because it happens to be one extreme aspect of\nlife.  The literary way is only one of the ways in which life\ncan be met.\n\nTo give the sense of life perfectly--to create the illusion\nof life--is this, then, the beauty of literature?  But we are\nseeking for the perfect moment of stimulation and repose.  Why\nshould the perfect illusion of life give this, any more than\nlife itself does?  So the \"vision\" of a picture might be\nintensely clear, and yet the picture itself unbeautiful.  Such\na complete \"sense of life,\" such clear \"vision,\" would show\nthe artist's mastery of technique, but not his power to create\nbeauty.  In the art of literature, as in the art of painting,\nthe normal function is but the first condition, the state of\nperfection is the end at which to aim.\n\nIt is just this distinction that we can properly make between\nthe characteristic or typical in the sense of differentiated,\nand the great or excellent in literature.  In the theory of\nsome writers, perfect fidelity to the type is the only\noriginality.  To paint the Russian peasant or the French\nbourgeois as he is, to catch the exact shade of exquisite\nsoullessness in Oriental loves, to reproduce the Berserker\nrage or the dull horror of battle, is indeed to give the\nperfect sense of life.  But the perfect, or the complete,\nsense of life is not the moment of perfect life.\n\nYet to this assertion two answers might be made.  The authors\nof \"Bel-Ami,\" or \"Madame Chrysantheme,\" or \"The Triumph of\nDeath,\" might claim to be saved by their form.  The march of\nevents, the rounding climax, the crystal-clear unity of the\nfinished work, they might say, gives the indispensable union,\nfor the perfect moment of stimulation and repose.  No syllable\nin the slow unfolding of exquisite cadences but is supremely\nplaced from the first page to the last.  As note calls to\nnote, so thought calls to thought, and feeling to feeling,\nand the last word is an answer to the first of the inevitable\nprocession.  A writer's donnee, they would say, is his own.\nThe reader may only bed--Make me something fine after your\nown fashion!\n\nAnd they would have to be acknowledged partly in the right.\nIn that inevitable unity of form there is indeed a necessary\nelement of the perfect moment; but it is not a perfect unity.\nFor the matter of their art should be, in the last analysis,\nlife itself; and the unity of life itself, the one basic\nunity of all, they have missed.  It is a hollow sphere they\npresent, and nothing solid.  Henry James has spent the whole\nof a remarkable essay on D'Annunzio's creations in determining\nthe meaning of \"the fact that their total beauty somehow\nextraordinarily fails to march with their beauty of parts,\nand that something is all the while at work undermining that\nbulwark against ugliness which it is their obvious theory of\ntheir own office to throw up.\"  The secret is, he avers, that\nthe themes, the \"anecdotes,\" could find their extension and\nconsummation only in the rest of life.  Shut out, as they are,\nfrom the rest of life, shut out from all fruition and\nassimilation, and so from all hope of dignity, they lose\nabsolutely their power to sway us.\n\nIt might be simpler to say that these works lack the first\nbeauty which literature as the dialect of life can have--they\nlack the repose of centrality; they have no identity with the\nmeaning of life as a whole.  It could not be said of them, as\nBagehot said of Shakespeare:  \"He puts things together, he\nrefers things to a principle; rather, they group themselves\nin his intelligence insensibly around a principle;...a cool\noneness, a poised personality, pervades him.\"  But in these\nmen there is no cool oneness, no reasonable soul, and so they\nmiss the central unity of life, which can give unity to\nliterature.  Even the apparent structural unity fails when\nlooked at closely; the actions of the characters are seen to\nbe mechanical--their meaning is not inevitable.\n\nThe second answer to our assertion that the \"sense of life\" is\nnot the beauty of literature might call attention to the fact\nthat SENSE of life may be taken as understanding of life.  A\ncomplete sense of life must include the conditions of life, and\nthe conditions of life involve this very \"energetic identity\"\non which we have insisted.  And this contention we must admit.\nSo long as the sense of life is taken as the illusion of life,\nour words hold good.  But if to that is added understanding of\nlife, the door is open to the profoundest excellences of\nliterature.  Henry James has glimpsed this truth in saying that\nno good novel will ever proceed from a superficial mind.\nStevenson has gone further.  \"But the truth is when books are\nconceived under a great stress, with a soul of ninefold power,\nnine time heated and electrified by effort, the conditions\nof our being seized with such an ample grasp, that even should\nthe main design be trivial or base, some truth and beauty\ncannot fail to be expressed.\"\n\n\nV\n\nThe conditions of our being!  If we accept, affirm, profoundly\nrest in what is presented to us, we have the first condition of\nthat repose which is the essence of the aesthetic experience.\nAnd from this highest demand can be viewed the hierarchy of the\nlesser perfections which go to make up the \"perfect moment\" of\nliterature.  Instead of reaching this point by successive\neliminations, we might indeed have reached it in one stride.\nThe perfect moment across the dialect of life, the moment of\nperfect life, must be in truth that in which we touch the\nconfines of our being, look upon our world, all in all, as\nrevealed in some great moment, and see that it is good--that\nwe grasp it, possess it, that it is akin to us, that it is\nidentical with our deepest wills.  The work that grasps the\nconditions of our being gives ourselves back to us completed.\n\nIn the conditions of our being in a less profound sense may\nbe found the further means to the perfect moment.  Thus the\nprogress of events, the development of feelings, must be in\nharmony with our natural processes.  The development, the\nrise, complication, expectation, gratification, the suspense,\nclimax, and drop of the great novel, correspond to the natural\nfunctioning of our mental processes.  It is an experience that\nwe seek, multiplied, perfected, expanded--the life moment of\na man greater than we.  This, too, is the ultimate meaning of\nthe demands of style.  Lucidity, indeed, there must be,--\nidentity with the thought; but besides the value of the thought\nin its approximation to the conditions of our being, we seek\nthe vividness of that thought,--the perfect moment of\napprehension, as well as of experience.  It is the beauty of\nstyle to be lucid; but the beauty of lucidity is to reinforce\nthe springs of thought.\n\nEven to the minor elements of style, the tone-coloring, the\nrhythm, the melody,--the essence of beauty, that is, of the\nperfect moment, is given by the perfecting of the experience.\nThe beauty of liquids is their ease and happiness of utterance.\nThe beauty of rhythm is its aiding and compelling power, on\nutterance and thought.  There is a sensuous pleasure in a\ngreat style; we love to mouth it, for it is made to mouth.\nAs Flaubert says somewhat brutally, \"Je ne said qu'une phrase\nest bonne qu'apres l'avoir fait passer par mon gueuloir.\"\n\nIn the end it might be said that literature gives us the\nmoment of perfection, and is thus possessed of beauty, when\nit reveals ourselves to ourselves in a better world of\nexperience; in the conditions of our moral being, in the\nconditions of our utterance and our breathing;--all these,\nconcentric circles, in which the centre of repose is given\nby the underlying identity of ourselves with this world.\nBecause it goes to the roots of experience, and seeks to give\nthe conditions of our being as they really are, literature\nmay be truly called a criticism of life.  Yet the end of\nliterature is not the criticism of life; rather the\nappreciation of life--the full savour of life in its entirety.\nThe final definition of literature is the art of experience.\n\n\nVI\n\nBut then literature would give only the perfect moments of\nexistence, would ignore the tragedies, ironies, pettiness of\nlife!  Such an interpretation is a quite mistaken one.  As\nthe great painting uses the vivid reproduction of an ugly\nface, a squalid hovel, to create a beautiful picture, beautiful\nbecause all the conditions of seeing are made to contribute to\nour being made whole in seeing; so great literature can attain\nthrough any given set of facts to the deeper harmony of life,\ncan touch the one poised, unconquerable soul, and can reinforce\nthe moment of self-completeness by every parallel device of\nstimulation and concentration.  And because it is most often\nin the tragedies that the conditions of our being are laid\nbare, and the strings which reverberate to the emotions most\neasily played upon, it is likely that the greatest books of all\nwill be the tragedies themselves.  The art of experience needs\ncontrasts no less than does the visual or auditory art.\n\nThis beauty of literature, because it is a hierarchy of beauties\nmore and less essential, exists in all varieties and in all\nshades.  If the old comparison and contrast of idealism and\nrealism is referred to here, it is because that ancient\ncontroversy seems not even yet entirely outworn.  If realism\nmeans close observation of facts and neglect of ideas, and\nidealism, neglect of prosaic facts and devotion to ideas, then\nwe must admit that realism and idealism are the names of two\ndefective types.  Strictly speaking, whatever goes deep enough\nto the truth of things, gets nearer reality, is realism; yet\nto get nearer reality is to attain true ideas, and that is\nidealism too.  The great work of literature is realistic\nbecause it does not lose sight of the ideal.  Our popular use\nof idealistic refers, indeed, to the world seen through rose-\ncolored glasses; but for that possible variety of literary\neffort it is better to use the word Romance.  Romance is the\nworld of our youthful dreams of things, not as they do happen,\nbut as, without any special deeper meaning, we should wish them\nto happen.  That is the world of the gold-haired maiden, \"the\nlover with the red-roan steed of steeds,\" the purse of\nFortunatus, the treasure-trove, the villain confronted with\nhis guilt.  \"Never the time and the place and the loved one\nall together!\"  But in Romance they come together.  The total\ndepravity of inanimate things has become the stars in their\ncourses fighting for us.  Stevenson calls it the poetry of\ncircumstance--for the dreams of youth are properly healthy\nand material.  The salvage from the wreck in \"Robinson Crusoe,\"\nhe tells us, satisfies the mind like things to eat.  Romance\ngives us the perfect moment of the material and human--with\nthe divine left out.\n\nIt has sometimes been made a reproach to critics--more often,\nI fear, by those who hold, like myself, that beauty and\nexcellence in art are identical--that they discourse too little\nof form in literature, and too much of content.  But all our\ntaking thought will have been vain, if it is not now patent\nthat the first beauty of literature is, and must be, its\nidentity with the central flame of life,--the primal conditions\nof our being.  Thus it is that the critic is justified in\nasking first of all, How does this man look on life?  Has he\nrevealed a new--or better--the eternal old meaning?  The\nWeltanschauung is the critic's first consideration, and after\nthat he may properly take up that secondary grasp of the\nconditions of our being in mental processes, revealed in the\nstructure, march of incidents, suspense, and climaxes, and the\nbeauty or idiosyncracy of style.  It is then literally false\nthat it does not matter what a man says, but only how he says\nit.  What he says is all that matters, for it will not be great\nthought without some greatness in the saying.  Art for art's\nsake in literature is then art for life's sake, and the\n\"informing purpose,\" in so far as that means the vision of our\ndeepest selves, is its first condition.\n\nAnd because the Beauty of Literature is constituted by its\nquality as life itself, we may defer detailed consideration\nof the species and varieties of literature.  Prose and poetry,\ndrama and novel, have each their own special excellences\nspringing from the respective situations they had, and have,\nto meet.  Yet these but add elements to the one great power\nthey all must have as literature,--the power to give the\nperfect experience of life in its fullness and vividness, and\nin its identity with the central meanings of existence,--unity\nand self-completeness together,--in a form which offers to our\nmental functions the perfect moment of stimulation and repose.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE NATURE OF THE EMOTIONS OF THE DRAMA\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE NATURE OF THE EMOTIONS OF THE DRAMA\n\nI\n\nTHAT psychologist who, writing on the problems of dramatic\nart, called his brochure \"The Dispute over Tragedy,\" gave\nthe right name to a singular situation.  Of all the riddles\nof aesthetic experi8ence, none has been so early propounded,\nso indefatigably attempted, so variously and unsatisfactorily\nsolved, as this.  What is dramatic?  What constitutes a\ntragedy?  How can we take pleasure in painful experiences?\nThese questions are like Banquo's ghost, and will not down.\n\nThe ingenious Bernays has said that it was all the fault of\nAristotle.  The last phrase of the famous definition in the\n\"Poetics,\" which should relate the nature, end, and aim of\ntragedy, is left, in his works as we have them, probably\nthrough the suppression or loss of context, without elucidating\ncommentary.  And the writers on tragedy have ever since so\nstriven to guess his meaning, and to make their answers square\nwith contemporary drama, that they have given comparatively\nslight attention to the immediate, unbiased investigation of\nthe phenomenon itself.  Aristotle's definition is as follows:<1>\n\"Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious,\ncomplete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished\nwith each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being\nfound in separate parts of the play:  in the form of action,\nnot of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper\npurgation of these emotions.\"  In what follows, he takes up\nand explains this definition, phrase by phrase, until the very\nlast.  What is meant by the Purgation (Katharsis) through pity\nand fear?  It is at least what tragedy \"effects,\" and is thus\nevidently the function of tragedy.  But a thing is determined,\nconstructed, judged, according to its function; the function\nis, so to speak, its genetic formula.  With a clear view of\nthat, the rest of the definition could conceivably have been\nconstructed without further explanation; without it, the key\nto the whole fails.  \"Purgation of these emotions;\" did it\nmean purification of the emotions, or purgation of the soul\nFROM the emotions?  And what emotions?  Pity and fear, or\n\"these and suchlike,\" thus including all emotions that tragedy\ncould bring to expression?\n\n<1> S.H. Butcher, _Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art_,\n1895.\n\nOur knowledge of the severely moral bent of the explicit art\ncriticism of the Greeks has inclined many to accept the first\ninterpretation; and modern interests impel in the same direction.\nIt is natural to think of the generally elevating and softening\neffects of great art as a kind of moral clarifying, and the\nquestion how this should be effected just by pity and fear was\nnot pressed.  So Lessing in the \"Hamburgische Dramaturgie\" takes\nKatharsis as the conversion of the emotions in general into\nvirtuous dispositions.\n\nBefore we ask ourselves seriously how far this represents our\nexperience of the drama, we must question its fidelity to the\nthought of Aristotle; and that question seems to have received\na final answer in the exhaustive discussion of Bernays.<1>\nWithout going into his arguments, suffice it to say that\nAristotle, scientist and physician's son as he was, had in\nmind in using this striking metaphor of the Katharsis of the\nemotions, a perfectly definite procedure, familiar in the\ntreatment, by exciting music, of persons overcome by the ecstasy\nor \"enthusiasm\" characteristic of certain religious rites.\nBernays quotes Milton's preface to \"Samson Agonistes:\"  \"Tragedy\nis said by Aristotle to be of power, by raising pity and fear,\nor terror, to purge the mind of those and such like passions;\nthat is, to temper and reduce them to just measure with a kind\nof delight, stirred by reading or seeing those passions well\nimitated.  Nor is Nature wanting in her own effects to make\ngood his assertion; for so in physic, things of melancholic\nhue and quality are used against melancholy, sour against\nsour, salt to remove salt humours,\" adding \"the homoeopathic\ncomparison shows how near he was to the correct notion.\"\nBernays concludes that by Katharsis is denoted the \"alleviating discharge\" of the emotions themselves.  In other words, pity\nand fear are bad, and it is a good thing to get rid of them\nin a harmless way, as it is better to be vaccinated than to\nhave small pox.\n\n<1> _Zwei adhandlungen uber d. Aristotelische Theories d.\nDrama_, 1880.\n\nNow this alleviating discharge is pleasurable (meth hedones),\nand the pleasure seems, from allied passages, to arise not in\nthe accomplished relief from oppression, but in the process\nitself.  This becomes intelligible from the point of view of\nAristotle's definition of pleasure as an ecstatic condition of\nthe soul.  For every emotion contains, according to Aristotle,\nbe it ever so painful, an ecstatic degree would effect, at the\nsame time with an alleviating discharge, a pleasure also.  Pity\nand fear are aroused to be allayed, and to give pleasure in the\narousing and the relief.\n\nSuch, approximately, is Aristotle's view of the Tragic Emotion,\nor Katharsis.  Is it also our own?  To clear the field for this\ninquiry, it will be well first of all to insist on a distinction\nwhich is mostly discounted in significance because taken for\ngranted.  We speak o Aristotle's Katharsis as the Tragic Emotion,\nforgetting that to-day Tragedy and the Tragic are no longer\nidentical.  Aristotle conceives himself to be dealing with the\npeculiar emotion aroused by a certain dramatic form, the name\nof which ha nothing to do with its content.  For Tragedy is\nliterally goat-song, perhaps from the goat-skins worn by the\nfirst performers of tragedy disguised as satyrs.  Since then\nwe have borrowed the name of that dramatic form to apply to\nevents which have the same type or issue as in that form.  In\npopular speech to-day the word tragic attaches itself rather\nto the catastrophe than to the struggle, and therefore, I cannot\nbut think, modern discussion of \"the tragic\" is wrong in\nattempting to combine the Aristotelian and the modern shades\nof meaning, and to embody them both in a single definition.\nAristotle is dealing with the whole effect of the dramatic\nrepresentation of what we should call a tragic occurrence.  It\nis really the theory of the dramatic experience and not of the\ntragic, in our sense, which occupies him.  Therefore, as I say,\nwe must not assume, with many modern critics, than an analysis\nof the tragic in experience will solve the problem of the\nKatharsis.  Our \"tragic event,\" it is true, is of the kind\nwhich dramatically treated helped to bring about this peculiar\neffect.  But the question of Aristotle and our problem of\nKatharsis is the problem of the emotion aroused by the Tragic\nDrama.  What, then, is the nature of dramatic emotion?\n\n\nII\n\nThe analogy of Aristotle's conception of the emotion of\ntragedy with certain modern views is evident.  To feel pain\nis to live intensely, it is said; to be absorbed in great,\neven though overwhelming, events is to make us realize our\nown pulsing life.  The criticism to be made on this theory\nis, however, no less simple:  it consists merely in denying\nthe fact.  It does not give us pleasure to have painful\nemotions or to see other people's sorrows, in spite of the\nremains of the \"gorille feroce\" in us, to which Taine and\nM. Faguet attribute this imputed pleasure.  And if we feel\npleasure, excitement, elevation in the representation of\nthe tragic, it must be due to some other element in the\nexperience than the mere self-realization involved in\nsuffering.  It is indeed our first impulse to say that the\npainful quality vanishes when the exciting events are known\nto be unreal; pity and fear are painful because too intense,\nand in the drama are just sufficiently moderated.  The\nrejoinder is easy, that pity and fear are never anything,\nbut painful down to the vanishing point.  The slight pity\nfor a child's bruised finger is not more pleasurable because\nless keen; while our feeling, whatever it is, for Ophelia\nor Gretchen, becomes more pleasurable in proportion to its\nintensity.\n\nIt is clear that the matter is not so simple as Aristotle's\npsychology would make it.  Pity and fear do not in themselves\nproduce pleasure, relief, and repose.  These emotions as\naroused by tragedy are either not what we know as pity and\nfear in real life, or the manner of their undergoing brings\nin an entirely new element, on which Aristotle has not\ntouched.  In some way or other the pity and fear of tragedy\nare not like the pity and fear of real life, and in this\ndistinction lies the whole mystery of the dramatic Katharsis.\n\nBut there is an extension of Aristotle's theory, lineally\ndescended from that of Lessing, which professes to elucidate\nthis difference and must be taken account of, inasmuch as it\nrepresents the modern popular view.  Professor Butcher, in\nhis edition of the \"Poetics,\" concludes, on the basis of a\nreference in the \"Politics\" implying that the Katharsis of\nenthusiasm is not identical with the Katharsis of pity and\nfear, that the word is to be taken less literally, as an\nexpulsion of the morbid elements in the emotions,--and these\nhe takes to be the selfish elements which cling to them in\nreal life.  Thus \"the spectator, who is brought face to face\nwith grander sufferings than his own, experiences a\nsympathetic ecstasy, a listing out of himself.  It is\nprecisely in this transport of feeling, which carries a man\noutside his individual self, that the distinctive tragic\npleasure resides.  Pity and fear are purged of the impure\nelement which clings to them in life.  In the glow of tragic\nexcitement these feelings are so transformed that the net\nresult is a noble emotional satisfaction.\"\n\nIn spite of our feeling that the literal and naive reading\nof the analogy was probably after all nearer Aristotle's\nmeaning, we may accept the words of Professor Butcher as its\nmodern formulation.  They sound, indeed, all but a truism:\nyet they are seen on examination to glide lightly over some\npsychological difficulties.  Firstly, the step is a long\none from the pity and fear felt by the Greek toward or about\nthe actors, to a sharing of their emotion.  The one is a\ndefinite external relation, limited to two emotions; the\nother, the \"sympathetic ecstasy,\" opens the door to all\nconceivable emotions, and needs at least to be justified.\nBut, secondly, even suppose the step taken; suppose the\n\"sympathetic imitation\" conceded as a fact:  the objections\nto Aristotle's interpretation are equally applicable to\nthis.  Why should this \"transport of sympathetic feeling\"\nnot take the form of a transport of pain?  Why should the\nnet result be \"a noble emotional satisfaction?\"  If pity\nand fear remain pity and fear, whether selfish or unselfish,\nit doth not yet appear why they are emotionally satisfactory.\nThe \"so transformed\" of the passage quoted assumes the point\nat issue and begs the question.  That is, if this transformation\nof feeling does indeed take place, there is at least nothing\nin the nature of the situation, as yet explained, to account\nfor it.  But explanation there must be.  To this, the lost\npassage on the Katharsis must have been devoted; this, every\nthorough-going study of the theory of the drama must make\nan indispensable preliminary.  What there is in the nature\nof tragic art capable of transforming painful to pleasurable\nemotion must be made clear.  Before we can accept Professor\nButcher's view of the function of Tragedy, its possibility\nas a psychological experience must be demonstrated.  For the\nimmediately pleasurable aesthetic effect of Tragedy, a certain\nkind of pity and fear, operating in a special way, are required.\nIt must be thus only in the peculiar character of the emotions\naroused that the distinctive nature of the tragic experience\nconsists.  What is this peculiar character?\n\n\nIII\n\nA necessary step to the explanation of our pleasure in\nsupposedly painful emotions is to make clear how we can feel\nany emotion at all in watching what we know to be unreal, and\nto show how this emotion is sympathetic, that is, imitative,\nrather than of an objective reference.  In brief, why do we\nfeel WITH, rather than toward or about, the actors?\n\nThe answer to this question requires a reference to the current\ntheory of emotion.  According to modern psychologists, emotion\nis constituted by the instinctive response to a situation; it\nis the feeling accompanying very complicated physical reactions,\nwhich have their roots in actions once useful in the history\nof mankind.  Thus the familiar \"expression\" of anger, the\nflushed face, dilated nostril, clenched fist, are remains or\nmarks of reactions serviceable in mortal combat.  But these,\nthe \"coarser\" bodily changes proper to anger, are accompanied\nby numberless organic reactions, the \"feel\" of all of which\ntogether is an indispensable element of the emotion of anger.\nThe point to be noted in all this is that these reactions are\nACTIONS, called up by something with which we literally HAVE\nTO DO.\n\nA person involved in real experience does not reproduce the\nemotions about him, for in real life he must respond to the\nsituation, take an attitude of help, consolation, warning;\nand the character of these reactions determines for him an\nemotion of his own.  Even though he really do nothing, the\nmultitudinous minor impulses to action going to make up his\nattitude appreciably interfere with the reproduction of the\nreactions of the object of his interest.  In an exactly\nopposite way the artificial conditions of the spectator at a\nplay, which reinforce the vivid reproduction of ideas, and\ncheck action, stifle those emotions directed toward the players,\nthe objective emotions of which we have spoken.  The spectator\nis completely cut off from all possibilities of influence on\nevents.  Between his world and that across the footlights an\ninexpressible gulf is fixed.  He cannot take an \"attitude,\"\nhe can have nothing to do in this galere.  Since he may not\nact, even those beginnings of action which make the basis of\nemotion are inhibited in him.  The spectator at a play experiences\nmuch more clearly and sharply than the sympathetic observer;\nonly the proportions of his mental contents are different.\nThis, I say, accounts for the absence of the real pity and\nfear, which were supposed to be directed toward the persons\nin the play.  But so far as yet appears there is every reason\nto expect the sympathetic reproduction of the emotions of the\npersons themselves.\n\nLet us briefly recall the situation.  The house is darkened\nand quiet; all lines converge to the stage, which is brightly\nlighted, and heightened in visual effect by every device known\nto art.  The onlooker's mind is emptied of its content; all\nfeeling of self is pushed down to its very lowest level.  He\nhas before him a situation which he understands through sight\nand hearing, and in which he follows the action not only by\ncomprehension, but by instinctive imitation.  This is the great\nvehicle of suggestion.  We cannot see tears rise without moisture\nin our own eyes; we reproduce a yawn even against our will; the\nsudden or the regular movement of a companion we are forced to\nfollow, at least incipiently.  Now the expression which we\nimitate brings up in us to a certain extent the whole complex\nof ideas and feeling-tones belonging to that expression.\nMoreover, the more closely we attend to it, the more explicitly\ndo we imitate it, by an evident psychological principle.  Thus\nin the artificially contrived situation of the spectator at a\nplay, he is forced, not only to understand intellectually, but\nalso to FOLLOW, quite literally, the emotional movements of\nthe actors.  The process of understanding, raised to the highest\npitch, involves by its very nature also reproduction of what is\nunderstood.  The complex of the ideas and associations of the\npersons of the play is ideally reproduced.  Are not the organic\nreactions belonging to these set up too?--not directly, in\nresponse to a situation in which the spectator may act, but\ndirectly, by reproduction of the mental contents of one who\nmay act, the person of the drama.  The final answer to this\nquestion contains, to my mind, the whole kernel of the dramatic\nmystery, and the starting-point for an aesthetic theory of\ntragedy.\n\n\nIV\n\nEvery play contains at least two actors.  The suggestion of\nstates of mind does not come from the hero alone, but is given\nby two persons, or groups of persons, at once.  These persons\nare, normally, in conflict.  Othello menaces, Desdemona shrinks;\nNora asserts her right, Hilmar his claim; L'Aiglon vaunts his\ninherited personality, Metternich--holds the candle to the\nmirror!  But what of the spectator?  He cannot at once shrink\nand menace, assert and deny, as the conditions of sympathetic\nreproduction would seem to demand.  Real emotion implies a\ndefinite set of reactions of the nature of movements; and two\nopposed movements cannot take place at the same time.  Ideas,\nhowever, can dwell together in amity.  The spectator has a\nvivid picture of Othello and Desdemona together; but his\nreactions have neutralized each other, and his emotions, lacking\ntheir organic conditions, are in abeyance.\n\nThis is the typical dramatic moment, for it is the one which\nis alone characteristic of the drama.  Only in the simultaneous\nrealization of two opposing forces is the full mutual checking\nof emotional impulses possible, and it is only in this\nsimultaneous realization that the drama differs from all other\nforms of art.  When the two antagonistic purposes are actually\npresented to the onlooker in the same moment of time, then alone\ncan be felt the vividness of realization, the tension of conflict,\nthe balance of emotion, the \"alleviation\" of the true Katharsis!\n\nBut what is this?  No emotion after all, when the very traditional\ntest of our enjoyment of a play is the amount of feeling it\narouses!--when hearts beat, hands clench, tears flow!  Emotion\nthere is, it may not be denied; but not the sympathetic emotions\nof the traditional theory.\n\nWhat emotion?  The mutual checking of impulses in a balance, a\ntension, a conflict which is yet a bond; and this it is which\nis the clue to the excitement or exaltation which in the dramatic\nexperience usurps the place of definite feeling.  We have met\nthis phenomenon before.  Aesthetic emotion in general, we have\nheard, consists just in the union of a kind of stimulation or\nenhanced life, with repose; a heightening of the vital energies\nunaccompanied by any tendency to movement,--in short, that\ngathering of forces which we connect with action, and which is\nfelt the more because action is checked.  Just such a repose\nthrough equilibrium of impulses is given by the dramatic conflict.\nIntrospection makes assurance doubly sure.  The tense exaltation\nof the typical aesthetic experience, undirected, unlimited, pure\nof personal or particular reference, is reproduced in this\nnameless ecstasy of the tragic drama.  The mysterious Katharsis,\nthe emotion of tragedy, is, then, a special type of the unique\naesthetic emotion.\n\nAnd it is the singular peculiar characteristic of the drama--\nthe face to face confrontation of forces--which furnishes these\nconditions.  As we might have foreseen, the peculiar Katharsis,\nor pleasurable disappearance or alleviation of emotion in\ntragedy, is based on just those elements in which the drama\ndiffers from other forms of art.  Confrontation, and not action,\nas the dramatic principle, is the important deduction from our\ntheory;--is, indeed, but the objective aspect of it.\n\nThe view of confrontation as the dramatic principle is confirmed\nby dramatic literature.  We emphasize in our study of Greek plays\ntheir simplicity of plot, their absence of intrigue, their\nsculptural, bas-relief quality.  The Greek drama makes of a poem\na crisis, says M. Faguet.  A tragedy is a well-composed group,\na fine contrast, a beautiful effect of imposing symmetry--as\nin the \"Antigone,\" \"on one side civil law in all its blind\nrigor, on the other moral law in all its splendor.\"  The only\nelement in common with the modern type is found in the conflict\nof wills.  Could such a play as the \"Suppliants\" of Euripedes\nfind any aesthetic justification, save that it has the one\ndramatic essential--confrontation, balance of emotions?  The\nvery scenes of short speeches, of objurgation or sententious\nrepartee, which cannot but have for us an element of the\ngrotesque, must have been as pleasing as they were to the Greek\naudience, from the fact that they brought to sharpest vision\nthe confrontation of the two antagonists.  The mediaeval drama,\nwhich has become popularly known in \"Everyman,\" is nothing but\na succession of duels, material or spiritual.  It is indeed the\ntwo profiles confronting one another, our sympathy balanced,\nand suspended, as it were, between them, which characterize our\nrecollections of this whole great field.  The modern critics and\ncomparers of English and French drama are fond of contrasting\nthe full, rich, even prodigal characterization, rhetorical and\nlyrical beauty of the Shakespearean drama with the cold, clear,\nlogical, but resistless movement of the French.  Yet the contrast\nis not quite that between characterization and form; the essential\nform is common to both.  In the first place, Elizabethan drama\nwas platform drama--that is, by the testimony of contemporaries,\nlittle concerned with anything but the succession of more or less\nunconnected scenes between two or three persons.  And we see\nclearly that the great dramatic power of \"Hamlet,\" for instance,\nmust lie, not in the movement of a wavering purpose, but in the\nseparate scenes of his struggle, each one wonderfully rich, vivid,\nbalanced, but almost a unit in itself.  On the theory that the\ntrue dramatic form is logical progress, dramatic--as contrasted\nwith literary--power would have to be denied to \"Hamlet.\"  The\naesthetic meaning of \"Lear\" is not in the terrible retribution\nof pride and self-will, but in the cruel confrontation of father\nand daughters.\n\nThis is no less true of the first great French plays.  It is\ncertainly not the resistless movement of the intrigue which\nmakes the \"Misanthrope,\" \"Tartufe,\" the \"Precieuses Ridicules,\"\nmasterpieces of comedy as well as of literature.  Their dramatic\nvalue lies in their piquancy of confrontation.  The tug-of-war\nbetween Alceste and Celimene, between Rodrigue and Chimene in\n\"Le Cid,\" is what we think of as dramatic; and it is this same\nelement which is found as well in the complicated and overflowing\nEnglish plays.  And in modern French drama, for all its \"logic,\"\nthe dominating factor is the \"scene a faire,\"--what I have called\nthe scene of confrontation.  The notoriously successful scene in\nthe English drama of to-day, the duel of Sophy and Lord Quex--\ntolerably empty of real feeling or significance though it is--\nbecomes successful merely through the consummate handling of\nthe face-to-face element.  Only by admitting this aesthetic\nmoment of arrest can we allow dramatic value to such a play as\n\"Les Affaires sont les Affaires\"--a truly static drama.  The\nhero of this is, in the words of a reviewer, \"essentially the\nsame force in magnitude and direction from the rise to the fall\nof the curtain.  It does not move; it is we who are taken around\nit so that we may see its various facets.  It is not moulded by\nthe successive incidents of the play, but only disclosed by\nthem; sibi constat.\"  Yet we cannot deny to the play dramatic\npower; and the reason for this is, as I believe, because it\ndoes, after all, possess the dramatic essential--not action, but\ntension.\n\n\nV\n\nIt will be demanded, however, what place there is then for a\ntemporal factor, if the typical dramatic experience depends upon\nthe great scene?  It cannot be denied that the drama is a work\nof art developed in time, like music and poetry.  It comes to a\nclimax and a resolution; it evolves its harmonies like the\nsymphony, in irrevocable order.  We cannot afford to neglect,\nin such an aesthetic analysis, what is an undoubted element in\ndramatic effect, the so-called inevitable march of events.  In\nanswer to this objection we may hold that the temporal factor\nis a corollary of the primary demand for confrontation.  It is\nnecessary that the confrontation or conflict should be vividly\nimagined, with all possible associative reinforcements--that\nit should be brought up to the turn of the screw, as it were.\nFor this, then, motivation is absolutely necessary.  An attitude\nis only clearly \"realized\" when it is made to seem inevitable.\nIt takes complete possession of our minds only when it inhibits\nall other possibilities.  At any given scene, the power of a\npart to reproduce itself in us is measured by the convincing\nquality given it by motivation, and for this there must be a\nfull body of associations to draw on, to round out and complete\nunderstanding.  The villain of the play is, for instance, less\ncompletely \"suggested\" to us, because our associations are\nsupposedly less rich for such characters; as a beggar hypnotized\nand made to feel himself a king has meagre mental equipment for\nthe part.  Now, this inner possession can come about only\nthrough the compelling force of a long course of preparation.\nIn providing such an accumulation of impulses, none was greater\nthan the younger Dumas--and none had to be greater!  To make\nhis audience accept--that is, identify itself with--the action\nof the hero in \"Denise,\" or the mother's decision in \"Les Idees\nde Mms. Aubray,\" so subversive of general social feeling, and\nthereby to experience fully the great dramatic moment in each\nplay, there had to go the effect of innumerable small impulses.\nAnd to realize some situations is even beyond the scope of a\nplay's development.  It is an acute remark of Mr. G.K.\nChesterton's, that many plays nowadays turn on problems of\nmarriage:  which subject is one for slow years of adjustment,\npatience, adaptation, endeavor; while the drama requires quick\ndecisions, bouleversements, etc., and would do wisely to\nconfine itself to fields in which such bouleversements can be\nmade credible.  At any rate, motivation is desirable for the\ndramatic confrontation, and time--the working-out--is an\nessential condition of motivation.  To make the dramatic\nconflict ever sharper and deeper, until it either melts into\nharmony, or ceases through the destruction of one element, is\nthe whole duty of the development, and makes it necessary.\nThat development is temporal, is, dramatically, only a device\nfor damming the flood that it may break at last with greater\nforce.\n\nThis, too, is an answer to the objection that if confrontation\nis the dramatic essential, bare opposition, because the clearest\nconfrontation, would be the greatest drama, and the \"Suppliants\"\nof Euripedes be indeed an example of it.  Bare opposition is\nnever real confrontation in our sense, for that must be an\narrest, a mutual antagonism of all impulses of soul and sense.\nIt must possess the whole man.  It needs to take in \"all\nthoughts, all passions, all delights,\" to be complete, and the\nmeasure of its completeness is the measure of its aesthetic\nvalue.\n\nIn the same way, the demand for profound truth and significance\nin the drama is clearly to be reached from the purely dramatic\nneed.  Inner \"possession,\" the condition for our dramatic\ntension, depends not alone on the cumulation of suggestions--\nsuggestion in its, so to speak, quantitative aspect.  The\nattitude of a character must be necessary in itself:  that is,\nit must be true to the great and general laws of life.  If it\nis fundamentally false, even with the longest and completest\npreparation, it rings hollow.  We cannot completely enter\ninto it.  Thus we see that the one central requirement, the\ndramatic germ, leads to the most far-reaching demands for\nlogic, sanity, and morality in the ideas of a play.\n\nThis should not be interpreted as exhausting the aesthetic\nvalue of logic and morality in the drama.  The drama is a\nspecies of literature:  and these qualities, apart from the\nfact that they are necessary to the full dramatic moment,\nhave also an aesthetic effect proper to themselves.  Thus\nthe development ha the beauty which lies in a necessary\nprogress; but this beauty is common to the epic, the novel,\nand the symphony, while the unity given by the confrontation\nand tension of simultaneous forces belongs to the drama alone.\nIt is therefore development as serving the dramatic end that\nI have deduced.\n\nYet we may well recall here the other aspect of the experience.\nAnalogous to the pleasure in rhythm and in music, in which the\nawaited beat or tone slips, as it were, into a place already\nprepared for it, with the satisfaction of harmonious nervous\nadjustment, is the pleasure in an inevitable and irrevocable\nprogress.  For it is not felt as inevitable unless the whole\ncrystallization of the situation makes such, and only such,\nan action or thought necessary at a certain point in the\nstructure, makes it to a certain extent anticipated, and so\nrecognized with acclaim on its appearance.  We will an event\nin anticipating and accepting it; and we realize it as it\ncomes.  Nothing more is to be found in the psychological\nanalysis of the will itself--theoretically, the two states\nare nearly identical.  Thus this continual anticipation and\n\"coming true\" takes on the feeling-tone of all volition; and\nso in music, as I have shown at length, and in drama, and to\na degree in all forms of literature, we have the illusion of\nthe triumphant will.  This is the secret of that creative joy\nfelt by the spectator at a drama, which has been so often\nnoted.  It is this illusion of the triumphant will, too, which\nenters largely into our acceptance of the tragic end.  Much\nhas been said, in the \"dispute over tragedy,\" of the so-called\n\"Resignation\" of the tragic hero, and of the audience in relation\nto his fate.  But I believe that these writers are wrong in\nconnecting this resignation primarily with a moral attitude.\nWhat is foreseen as perfectly inevitable, is sufficiently\n\"accepted\" in the psychological sense--that is, vividly imagined\nand awaited,--to contribute to this illusion of volition.  Hence\narise, for the catastrophe of drama, that exaltation and stern\njoy which are indissolubly connected with the experience of\nwill in real life.\n\n\nVI\n\nWe have spoken of the dramatic, and have desired to show that\nits peculiar aesthetic experience arises out of the tension or\nbalance of emotion in the confrontation of opposing forces.  If\nthis is a fruitful theory, it should throw light on the\ndistinction between the different forms of the drama, and on\nthe principal issues of that \"Dispute over Tragedy\" which is\nalways with us.\n\nThe possible results of a meeting of two forces are these.\nBoth forces, or one force, may be destroyed; or, short of\ndestruction, the two may melt into harmony, or one may give\nway before the other.  I think it may be said that these\nalternatives represent the distinctions of Tragedy and Comedy.\nWhen two aims are absolutely irreconcilable, and when the forces\ntending to them are important,--that is, powerful,--there must\nbe somewhere destruction, and we have tragedy.  When they are\nreconcilable, if they are important, we have serious comedy;\nwhen not important, or not envisaged as important, we have\nlight comedy.  Thus Tragedy and Comedy are closely related,--\nmore closely than we are prone to think.  In the words of the\nlate Professor Everett, in \"Poetry, Comedy, and Duty:\" \"The\ntragic is, like the comic, simply the incongruous.  The great\nTragedy of Nature, which is called the Struggle for Existence,\nresults simply from a greater or less incongruousness between\nany form of life and its surroundings....The comic is found\nin an incongruous relation considered merely as to its FORM,\nwhile the tragic is found in an incongruous relation taken as\nto its reality.\"  For this word incongruity I would substitute\ncollision or conflict.  When there is no way out, we have\nTragedy; when there is a way out, we have Comedy.  And when\nthings are taken superficially enough, there always is a way\nout, for we can at least always agree to disagree. In any case,\nthe end of the conflict is a period, repose, unity.  This seems\nto be borne out by immediate introspection.  The feelings with\nwhich we come from a great tragedy or a great comedy are indeed\nalmost identical.  The excitement, tension, sunk into repose,\nare common to both; the satisfaction with a good ending is\nstrangely paralleled by our resignation to a bad one,--\nsignificant of our real indifference to the fact, so long as\nthe Aesthetic Unity is reached.\n\nIn George Meredith's wonderful little essay on the Comic Spirit,\nthis view is rather remarkably confirmed.  He has defined\nComedy as the contrast of the middle way, the way of common\nsense, with our human vagaries, \"Comme un point fixe fait\nremarquer l'emportement des autres.\"  Comedy, he says, teaches\nthe world to understand what ails it....\"Comedy is the fountain\nof sound sense,\" and again, \"the use of the true comedy is to\nawaken thoughtful laughter.\"  \"Men's future upon earth does\nnot attract it; their honesty and shapeliness in the present\ndoes; and whenever they wax out of proportion, overblown,\naffected, pretentious, bombastical, hypocritical, pedantic,\nfantastically delicate; whenever it sees them self-deceived or\nhoodwinked, given to run riot in idolatries, drifting into\nvanities, congregating in absurdities, planning shortsightedly,\nplotting dementedly; whenever they are at variance with their\nprofessions, and violate the unwritten but perceptible laws\nbinding them in consideration one to another; whenever they\noffend sound reason, fair justice; are false in humility or\nmoved with conceit, individually or in the bulk--the Spirit\noverhead will look humorously malign and cast an oblique light\non them, followed by volleys of silvery laughter.  That is\nthe Comic Spirit.\"  The Comic Spirit is the just common sense,\nthe subconscious wisdom of the ages.  There IS a golden mean,\nthe Comic Spirit shows it to us in the light of our flashing\nlaughter at the deviation therefrom.  And because there is,\neven the unreconciled--reconcilable--difference or conflict\nis not serious.  That is why true Comedy seems to find its\nbest field in a developed social life.  The incongruities of\nhuman nature hurt is they are pressed too deep, because they\nare irreconcilable; they too quickly edge the tragic gulf.\nBut the incongruities of the conventional life do not hurt\nwhen pressed.  To change our metaphor, adjustment to the\nmiddle way is here so easily credible and possible, that it\nis the very hunting-ground for the Comic Spirit.\n\nThe reputed masterpiece of Moliere shows us Alceste and Celimene\nin the end still at odds.  But light-heartedness and sincerity\nare not to common sense incompatible, and thus we are rightly\nled up to the impasse by paths of laughter.  Wherever the\nmiddle way is divined, there is the possible entrance of the\nSpirit of Comedy.  It is certainly a detriment to the purely\nTragic effect of Pinero's greatest play, that the middle way,\nthe possibility of reconciliation, is shadowed forth in the\nlast word,--the cry of the stepdaughter of the Second Mrs.\nTanqueray, \"If I had only been more merciful!\"  Dumas fils\nwould never have allowed that.  He would have written his play\naround that thought, and made it indeed a reconciling drama--\nor he would have suppressed the cry.  The end of Romeo and\nJuliet--date I confess it?--has always hovered for me close\nto that border which is not sublime.  For the hapless lovers\nmissed all for want of a little common sense.  There was naught\ninevitable in their plight.  I see the Comic Spirit leaning\nacross to stay the hand of the impetuous Romeo.  Why not take\na moment's sober thought? she murmurs.\n\nTragedy ensues when there is no way out.  It is not that ruin\nor death for those in whom these forces are embodied is of the\nessence of the situation; only that in the complete destruction\nof a force or purpose when it has been embodied in a strong\ndesperate character, the death of that character is usually\ninvolved.  There is no solution but to cut the knot.  The\ntragic has been defined as \"that quality of experience whereby,\nin and through some serious collision, followed by fatal\ncatastrophe or inner ruin, something valuable in personality\nbecomes manifest, either as sublime or admirable in the hero,\nor as triumph of an idea.\"  But \"Lear,\" \"Macbeth,\" \"Hamlet,\"\n\"Oedipus King,\" \"Othello,\" exist to contravene this view.  No,\nthe tragic (in its first sense, in the sense derived from the\ndramatic form from which it is named) is in the collision\nitself; it is the profound and, to our vision, the irreconcilable\nantagonism of different elements in life.  And in life we\naccept it because we must; we transcend it because, as moral\nbeings, we may.  The sublime in actual tragic experience is the\nreaction of the unconquerable Soul.  In tragic literature\nanother appears.  We are helped in transcending the essential\ncontradictions of life presented to us, because the conditions\nof literature in \"preparing\" an event create for us the illusion\nof volition, the acceptance of fate.  And in the tragic drama,\nto all these elements of the complex experience, there is added\nthe exaltation of the aesthetic \"arrest,\" the tension of\nconfrontations.\n\nThe question of the \"highest\" or \"most tragic\" form of tragedy\nseems to have been settled by general agreement.  It has been\nheld that the tragic of the justified opposing force is the\nmore full of meaning and importance, for the reason that more\ninteresting and complex feelings are called into play on each\nside than in the case of the unjustified opposing force.  But\nthe definition of the tragic drama we have won seems further\nto illuminate our undoubted preference for this type.  We\ndemand aesthetically all that will make the confrontation,\nthe dramatic tension, more clearly felt; and we cannot realize\nfully a side which should be unjustified.  In such a play as\nMaeterlinck's \"Aglavaine and Selysette\" there is no movement,\nand even the conflict is subterranean; yet, as all the\ncharacters are in their way noble, and in their way justified,\nwe find it among the most poignant of his plays.  Nay, more,\nin any situation the more nearly the conflict is shown to be\nabsolutely inevitable, arising out of the very nature of life\nas we know it,--completely justified, or at least FELT as\ninevitable on both sides,--the more are we shaken by the\ndistinctive tragic emotion.  The conflict of duties to one's\nself and to the world is the sharpest of tragedies.  Luther,\nas Freytag well shows, is a really tragic figure from the\nmoment when we conceive of the inner connection of his\nintolerance with all that is good and great in his nature.\nAs the expression of such a conflict of impulses good in\nthemselves, \"Magda\" is a great tragedy than the \"Joy of\nLiving;\" \"Ghosts\" than \"Hedda Gabler;\" the story of \"Francesca\nDa Rimini\" (I do not mean D'Annunzio's play) than \"La Citta\nMorta.\"\n\nWhat, then, shall be said of the so-called tragic \"Guilt,\" in\nwhich the hero rushes on impiously to his doom?  It is clear\nthat this question is closely related to the much-debated\n\"Greatness\" of the tragic hero.  If there is guilt, there must\nbe also greatness, to impress that side of the canvas on our\nvision.  It is, indeed, almost a quantitative problem.\nStrength, energy, depth of passion, breadth of vision, power\nand place, ravish our attention and our unconscious imitation.\nWhat is lacking in extensity of associative reproduction must\nbe added in intensity.  And, in fact, we find that it is the\ngiants who bear the tragic \"Schuld.\"  Hamlet is not guilty;\nrather \"one like ourselves,\" in Aristotle's phrase, and\ntherefore he need not be great.  I agree with Volkelt's view\nthat even the traditional tremendous will of the tragic hero\nmay be dispensed with.  No doubt it is most often strength\nof will which brings out the original conflict.  But that\nconflict once given, as it is given, for example, in \"Hamlet,\"\nthe main point is to increase the weight of each side, which\ncan indeed be done by other elements of greatness.  On the\nother hand, I disagree with Volkelt's reason for thus\nexempting will, which is, that the contrast feeling of \"how\ngreat a fall was there\" may be given by other qualities in\nthe hero than that of will.  As I have urged, it is not the\ncatastrophe which is of the tragic essence, and therefore\nnot for the sake of the catastrophe that we should marshal\nour elements.  The climax of tragedy and of our feeling is\nin the deadlock of forces, and whatever is not absolutely\nessential thereto may be done without.\n\n\nVII\n\nThe phenomenon of our aesthetic reaction on the so-called\npainful experiences of the drama has then been discussed at\nlength and accounted for.  There is an undoubted emotional\nexperience of great intensity; and yet that emotion turns\nout to be not the emotion IN the drama, but rather the\nemotion FROM the drama,--a unique independent emotion of\ntension, otherwise a form of the characteristic aesthetic\nemotion with which we have been before engaged.  The playwright\nwho scornfully rejects the spectator supposed to be aesthetic,\nideally contemplative and emotionally indifferent, is\nvindicated.  There must be a vivid emotional effect, but it\nis the spectator's very own, and not a copy of the hero's\nemotion, because it is the product of the essential form of\nthe drama itself, the confrontation of forces.\n\nSecondly, that confrontation of forces has revealed itself\nas indeed essential.  This is not the time-honored view of\ntragedy as collision, which has been arrived at simply by\nobserving that great tragic dramas are mostly collisions,\nmaking the drama a picture thereof, but not explaining why\nit must be such.  I have tried, on the contrary, to show that confrontation is a necessary product of the bare form of\ndramatic representation,--two people face to face.  But if\nthis bare form or scheme of confrontation is understood and\ninterpreted as profoundly as possible, then all the other characteristics of the tragic drama are seen to flow from it;\nand thus for the first time to be really explained by being\naccounted for.  The tragic drama not only is, but must be,\ncollision, because confrontation, understood as richly as\npossible, must be collision.  It must be \"inevitable,\" and\nit must have movement, because only so is the confrontation\nreinforced.\n\nIn brief, others have said that the drama, or tragedy, is\nconflict, the perfect opposition of two forces.  We should\nrather say that the drama is first of all picture, living\nrepresentation of colloquy; as such, it is balance,\nconfrontation; and confrontation to its ideal degree of\nintensity is conflict.  No drama can dispense with picture;\nand so no drama is free from the obligation to add unto itself\nthese other qualities also.  The acting play is the play of\nconfrontations.\n\n\n\nVIII\nTHE BEAUTY OF IDEAS\n\nVIII\nTHE BEAUTY OF IDEAS\n\nI\n\nTHE Idea of Beauty has been greatly widened since the age of\nPlato.  Then, it was only in order, proportion, unity in\nvariety, that beauty was admitted to consist; to-day we hold\nthat the moderns have caught a profounder beauty, the beauty\nof meanings, and we make it matter for rejoicing that nothing\nis too small, too strange, or too ugly to enter, through its\npower of suggestion, the realm of the aesthetically valuable;\nand that the definition of beauty should have been extended\nto include, under the name of Romantic, Symbolic, Expressive,\nor Ideal Beauty, all of the elements of aesthetic experience,\nall that emotionally stirs us in representation.  But while\nthis view is a natural development, it is not of necessity\nunassailable; and it is open to question whether the addition\nof an independent element of expression to the older definition\nof beauty can be justified by its consequences for art.\n\nSuch an inquiry, however, cannot stop with the relation of the\ndeeper meanings of modern art to the conception of beauty.  It\nmust go further and find out what elements, the sensuous form\nor the ideas that are bound up with it, in a work of art, of\nthe classical as well as of the idealistic type, really\nconstitute its aesthetic value.  What is it that makes the\nbeauty of the \"Venus of Milo\"?  Is it the pose and the modeling,\nor the idea of the eternal feminine that it expresses to us?\nWhat is it that makes the beauty of St. Mark's or of Giotto's\ntower? the relation of the lines and masses or the sacred\nsignificance of the edifices they go to form?  What is it that\nmakes the beauty of the Ninth Symphony? the perfection of the\nmelodic sequence, or the Hymn of Joy, the message from the\nInfinite which they are meant to utter?\n\nThe antithesis between these two points of view is, of course,\nnot the same as that other antithesis between \"art for art's\nsake\" and art in the light of its moral meanings and effects.\nWhat we now call romantic or expressive art can certainly be\nmade the more fruitful in moral suggestions; but this fact\nbears not at all on the question of what belongs fundamentally\nto the nature of beauty.  We know, moreover, that on this\nmatter the camps of the formalists and the romanticists are\ndivided.  The Greeks, the lovers of formal beauty, were so\nalive to the moral effects of art that their theories were in\ndanger of being quite overwhelmed by this view.  On the other\nhand, the lovers of ideas in art, the natural enemies, as one\nwould have thought, of art for art's sake, have been most often\nimpatient of any consideration of its moral elements or effects.\nThis second question, then, of art as pleasure or as moral\ninfluence can be once for all excluded from the discussion.  So\nfar as yet appears, the issue is between form and expression.\n\nThere is, perhaps, some point of common agreement from which\nto survey and distinguish more exactly these two diverging\ntendencies.  Such a coign of vantage is offered by the nature\nof the aesthetic attitude,--for since Kant there has been among\naestheticians no essential difference of opinion on this point.\nThe aesthetic attitude, all agree, is disinterested.  We care\nfor the image or appearance of the object, for the way its\nform affects us, and not for the actual existence of the object\nitself.  If I delight aesthetically in a cluster of grapes, I\ndo not want to eat them, but only to enjoy their image, and my\nfeeling of pleasure, as aesthetic, would not be changed if\nbefore me were only a mirage, an hallucination, or a picture.\nIt is just the pleasure in perception that appeals to me,--\ntherein both schools agree,--and the only matter at issue is\nthe question of what this disinterested pleasure of perception\nincludes.  Is that pleasure bound up with the mechanisms of\nperception itself, or does it come from the end of the process\nand the ease with which it is reached,--from the IDEA, in the\ncontemplation of which we delight?\n\nOne school asserts that the real pleasure in perception comes\nonly from form.  The given object is beautiful, through its\noriginal qualities of line, color, or sound, which strike the\nspecial senses in a way that is pleasing to them; and through\nits combinations of these qualities, which affect the whole\nhuman organism in a directly pleasurable way.  What is outside\nof the given object of art--is meant, suggested, or recalled\nby it--belongs, it is said, to absolutely unaesthetic processes,\nas is shown by the fact that many things, which we are the first\nto acknowledge as ugly, are the exciting cause of great thoughts\nand delightful associations.  The opposed school maintains that\nthe meanings of a work of art are all that it exists for.  The\npresentation of an idea, by whatever sensuous means, so only\nthat they be transparent, and the joy of the soul in contemplating\nthis idea, must be the object and the end of art.  The later\nidealists admit value to the form only in so far a it may\nexpress, convey, symbolize, or suggest the content, whether as\npure idea, or as a shadowing forth of the Divine World-Meaning.\n\nThese theories are certainly intelligible; but the results of\napplying them with logical consistency are rather terrifying.\nAndrew Lang says somewhere that the logical consequence of the\nformal theory of art in all its nakedness would make Tennyson\nthe youth, Swinburne, and Edgar Poe the greatest poets of the\nworld, and those delicious effusions of Edward Lear, \"The\nJumblies\" and \"On the Coast of Coromandel,\" masterpieces.  Yet\nif we allow the idealists to pass sentence, what shall become\nof our treasures in \"Kubla Khan,\" or \"Ueber allen Gipfeln,\" or\n\"La Nuit de Decembre\"?  The results of such a judgment day\nwould be even more appalling to the true lover of poetry.\nMoreover, if the idea, the end of art, need not reside in the\nobject itself, but may arise therefrom by subtle suggestion,\nthe complications of poetry or painting are unnecessary.  A\ngeometric figure may remind us of the constitution of the\nworld of space, a sundial, of the transitoriness of human\nexistence, and with a \"chorus-ending from Euripedes,\" the whole\nsweep of the cosmic meanings is upon us.  In the words of Fra\nLippo Lippi:--\n\n                                   \"Why, for this,\n     What need of art at all?  A skull and bones,\n     Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or what's best,\n     A bell to chime the hours with, does as well.\"\n\n\nII\n\nIn spite of this, however, a place for ideas must clearly be\nfound in our definition of beauty; and yet it must be so\nlimited and bound to the beautiful form that corollaries such\nas we have just drawn will be impossible.  An interesting\nattempt to reconcile these two points of view--to establish\nan organic relation between form and idea--is found in \"The\nSense of Beauty\" by Professor George Santayana.  The central\npoint of this writer's theory is his definition of beauty as\nthe objectification of pleasure.  Aesthetic experience, he\nsays, is based partly on form, partly on expression, but the\npleasure felt is always projected into the object, and is\nfelt as a quality of it.  All kinds of external associations\nmay connect themselves with the work of art, but so long as\nthey remain external, and keep, so to speak, their values\nfor themselves, they cannot be said to add beauty to the\nobject.  But when they are present only in their effect,--\na diffused feeling of pleasure,--that diffused feeling is\nattributed directly to the object, is felt as if it inheres\ntherein, and so the object becomes more beautiful, for beauty\nis objectified pleasure.  Professor Santayana designates form\nas beauty in the first term, and expression as beauty in the\nsecond term.  Beauty in the first term can exist alone,--not\nso beauty in the second term.  It must have a little beauty\nof the first term to graft itself upon.  \"A map, for instance,\nis not usually thought of as an aesthetic object, and yet,\nlet the tints of it be a little subtle, let the lines be a\nlittle delicate, and the masses of land and sea somewhat\nbalanced, and we really have a beautiful thing, the charm of\nwhich consists almost entirely in its meaning.\n\nNow here, it seems to me, is a weak point in Professor\nSantanaya's armor.  If such wonderful elements of beauty can\nbe projected into a fairly colorless object by virtue of its\nfringe of suggestiveness, why should not beauty of the second\nterm be felt in objects without that little bit of intrinsic\nworth of form?  Is not such indeed the fact?  What else is\nthe meaning of the story of \"Beauty and the Beast\"?  The squat\nand hideous Indian idol, the scarabaeus, the bit of Aztec\npottery, become attractive and desired for themselves by virtue\nof their halo of pleasure from dim associations.  And all these\nvalues are felt as completely OBJECTIFIED, and so fulfill the\nrequirements for \"beauty in the second term.\"  That small\namount of intrinsic beauty on which to graft the beauty of the\nsecond term is, therefore, not a necessary condition, so that\nwe are left, on Professor Santayana's theory, with the strange\nparadox of so-called beautiful objects which are, nevertheless,\nconfessedly ugly.\n\nWhat, then, is the flaw in this definition?  While we concede\nthe objectification of pleasure in all these cases, we cannot,\nit would seem, admit a corresponding change from non-aesthetic\nto aesthetic feelings.  The personal attitude towards an object,\nbased on sentiments objectified in it, and the aesthetic\nattitude are two different things.  The truth is, that all this\nobjectified tone-feeling is directly dependent on the original\nreal existence of the object that calls it up, and on our\npractical personal relation to it, and is thus, by universal\nagreement, definitely non-aesthetic.  I enjoy the cast of the\ngreat Venus very nearly as much as the original,--but who cares\nfor casts of the Aztec gods, or of the prehistoric carvings of\nthe reindeer period?  Who wants an imitation scarabaeus?  To\nhave the real thing, to see it, to touch it, to know that it\nhas had real experiences that would fill me with wonder and with\nawe, \"to love it for the danger it has passed,\"--to feel that\nI myself am through it actually linked with its mysterious\nhistory,--that is the value it has for me; not a pleasure of\nperception at all, but a very definite, practical interest in\nmy own personality.  If the pleasure lay only in disinterested\nperception, any representation of the object ought to have the\nsame value.\n\nWhat, then, the author of \"The Sense of Beauty\" calls \"the\nbeauty of the second term,\"--the power to suggest feeling\nthrough the medium of associated ideas,--we may deny to impart\nany aesthetic character whatever.  Professor Santayana has,\nindeed, mediated between the formalists and the idealists;\nbut his theory would lead us to attributions of beauty from\nwhich common sense revolts; and we have seen the secret of its\ndeficiency to lie in the confusion of the personal with the\naesthetic attitude.  If now we amend his definition, \"Beauty\nis objectified pleasure,\" to \"Beauty is objectified aesthetic\npleasure,\" we are advanced no further.\n\n\nIII\n\nThe problem stands, then:  how to provide for the presence of\nideas in the work of art, and the definite emotions aroused by\nit, either by bringing them somehow into the definition of beauty\nin itself, or by showing how their presence is related to the\nfull aesthetic experience.  But, first of all, we have to ask\nhow the aesthetic pleasure even in formal beauty is constituted,\nand to what extent expression belongs to the beauty of pure\nform.  Form is impressive, or directly beautiful, through its\nharmony with the conditions offered by our senses, primarily of\nsight and hearing, and through the harmony of its combinations\nof suggestions and impulses with the entire organism.  I enjoy\na well-composed picture like Titian's \"Sacred and Profane Love,\"\nbecause the good composition means such a balanced relation of\nimpulses of attention, of incipient movements, as harmonizes\nwith such an organism as mine, tending to move toward both\nsides, and yet unified and stable; and because the combination\nof colors is at once stimulating and soothing to my eyes.  So\nmuch for IMPRESSION, beauty of the first term.  But it is not\nonly that harmonious state of my visual and motor functions\nthat I get out of the form of a picture.  No, I have, besides\nall this pleasure, a real exhilaration or emotion, a definite\nmood of repose or gayety or triumph, without any fringe of\nassociation, which yet certainly contributes to my feeling of\nthe beauty of the experience, and so of the work of art.  How\ndid it come out of the form?\n\nWell, this very harmonious excitation of the organism has\nbrought with it just such an organic reverberation as, the\ncurrent theory of emotion asserts, must be at the bottom of\nall our emotional states.  A certain sequence of nervous shocks\nand of vasomotor changes, certain stimulations and relations\nand contractions of the internal organs have been set up as the\n\"diffusive wave\" from the sense-stimulations, and a particular\nemotional tinge is the result.  That is a direct impression,\nbut an expression too.  Take the same case on a much lower\nlevel.  A glass of wine makes me cheerful, not because it\narouses cheerful ideas directly, but because the organic changes\nit sets up are such as belong to the MOTIVATED expression of\njoy, and have the same effect.  A deep, slow movement played by\nan orchestra can affect me in two ways.  It may be that I have\nusually connected that sort of music with religious experiences,\nand all the profound and inspiring feelings belonging thereto;\nand so I transfer those feelings to the music and give it those\nadjectives.  Or the slowness of the rhythmic pulse that is set\nup in me, the largeness, the volume, the depth of sound, all\nbring about in me the kind of nervous state that belongs to a\nreposeful and yet deeply moved feeling.  The second experience\nis expression through impression, through the inward changes\nthat the form itself sets up.  The first is expression through\nthe medium of something external,--an idea which brings with it\na feeling,--something that does not belong to the music itself,\nbut to my own individual experiences.\n\nThis distinction between internal and external expressiveness\nis perfectly clear for music, and also for architecture.  In\npainting, too, it can easily be traced.  We know the effect\nthat is produced by broken lines, by upward moving ones,--like\nthe \"always aspiring\" of the Gothic cathedral.  The low-lying,\nwide expanses of some of the old Dutch landscapists give us\nrepose, not because they remind us of the peaceful happiness\nof the land, but because we cannot melt ourselves into all\nthose horizontal lines without that restful feeling which\naccompanies such relaxation; and our emotion is read into the\npicture as AESTHETIC pleasure, because it came out of the\nabstract forms,--the PAINTING in the picture.\n\nThe beauty of form is thus seen to be inseparably allied with\na certain degree of emotional expressiveness in a way that\ndoes not distract, like the association of ideas, from the\npure aesthetic experience.  This quality of expressiveness\nshould not, however, become a part of the definition of beauty,\nso that it should be said that the greater the emotional\nexpressiveness, the more beautiful the object.  For if that\nwere true, such music, for instance, as all acknowledge quite\nmediocre, would be felt as most beautiful by those who find in\nit a strong and definite emotion; and a Strauss waltz, which\nmakes us more merry than one by Mendelssohn, should be in so\nfar more beautiful.  This, of course, we are not ready to\nconcede; and it seems, therefore, most logical to regard the\nspecial emotional effects of formal beauty rather as a corollary\nto, than as a part of, the essential aesthetic mood.  But if we\ngive the name emotion to that perfectly vague but unmistakable\nexcitement with which we respond to purely formal beauty,--that\nindescribable exaltation with which we listen to \"absolute\"\nmusic,--then we must say that that emotion is but another name\nfor aesthetic pleasure.  Objectively, we have formal beauty;\nsubjectively, on the physiological side, a harmonious action\nof the organism, and on the mental side the undefined exaltation\nwhich is known as aesthetic pleasure.\n\n\nIV\n\nUp to this point, however, we have considered only the relation\nbetween purely formal beauty and the various shades of emotional\nresponse to it; now we may turn to the original question which\nwe set ourselves, how to provide, in our definition of beauty,\nfor the presence of ideas in the work of art.  No one will deny\nthat the full aesthetic experience cannot be dismissed with the\ntreatment of formal beauty; and, although Professor Santayana's\n\"beauty in the second term\" may be rejected as a pure individual,\narbitrary, interested, and hence unaesthetic element, the\nexplicit content of a work of art cannot be ignored.  The\nsuggested ideas aroused by an old rose garden may be no addition\nto its beauty, but the same cannot be said of the great ideas\ncontained directly in Shakespeare's poetry.  Yet great ideas\nalone do not make great art, else we must count Aristotle and\nSpinoza and Kant great poets too.  Must we then be satisfied to\nrest in the dualism of those who maintain that great creations\nof art are the expression of great truths under the laws of\npoetic form?  Is the aesthetic expression indeed the recognition\nof truth plus the feeling of beauty of form, or is it a fusion\nof these into a third undivided pulse of aesthetic emotion?  Is\nthere no way of overcoming, for those arts which do express\nideas, this dualism of form and content in our theory of the\nbeautiful?\n\nLet us analyze a little more closely this notion of the content.\nMusic and architecture cannot properly be said to have any\ncontent, although they have a meaning according to their uses,\nlike a funeral dirge and a hymn of joy, a prison and a temple.\nBut this meaning is extraneous.  It is given by the work itself\nonly in so far as the form induces the emotion which belongs to\nthe idea,--as the dirge, sadness; the temple, awe.  The idea of\nburial or of worship is nowhere to be found in the work of art.\nIn the hierarchy of arts, paining and sculpture show the first\ntrace of a content.  This content, however, is at once seen to\nbe susceptible of farther analysis.  The \"Sistine Madonna\"\npictures a mother and child worshiped, which may be called the\nsubject,--but this does not exhaust the content.  The real\nmeaning of the picture, to which may be given the name of THEME,\nis the divine element in maternal love.  The subjects of\nDonatello's \"John the Baptist\" and \"Saint George,\" of Michael\nAngelo's \"David\" and \"Moses,\" can be described only as men of\nDifferent types in different attitudes; their themes, however,\nare moral ideas, expressing the moral significance of each\npersonality.  The subject of \"The Angelus\" is given in its\nname; its theme is humble piety.  From the infinite number of\npossible examples one more will suffice,--the well-known \"War\"\nby Franz Stuck, in the Neue Pinacothek,--the subject a youth,\nunder a lurid sky, trampling under his horse's feet the bodies\nof the slain.  The theme is again a moral idea,--the horrors of\nwar.\n\nIf we now ask whether we can attribute beauty to the ideas of\npainting and sculpture, a negative answer is at once suggested.\nIt is manifestly impossible to establish an order of aesthetic\nexcellence between these subjects.  The idea of peasants telling\ntheir beads is more beautiful than the idea of a ruthless\ndestroyer only in so far as it is morally higher; and this\ndistinction, therefore, has reference to the theme and not to\nthe subject.  How far, however, moral and aesthetic excellence\nare coincident is a question for which we are not yet ready.\nAt this point we care only to point out that the mere idea of\na picture is neither aesthetic nor the reverse.\n\nBut, it may be objected, is not our first thought in stopping\nbefore a picture like the \"War,\" \"What a wonderful idea\"?  It\nis the idea and not the form which strikes us, it may be said,\neven though we may be quite unimpressed by the value of its\nmoral significance.  Nevertheless, this view of our own mental\nprocesses may be held to the illusory.  What really strikes us\nis the UNITY of the conception.  The lurid sky, the dark, livid\nfaces of the dead--the whole color scheme, in short, is so\ncontrived as to impress directly, as previously explained,\nwithout the medium of an idea, with that particular tinge of\nemotional tone which ought to be also the accompaniment of the\nidea of the horrors of war.  The emotion is thus the enveloping\nunity which binds the subject and theme and the pictorial form\ntogether.  In this sense, when we say, \"What a wonderful idea!\"\nwe really mean, what a wonderful fitness of form to idea,--\nwhich is the same as saying, what a wonderful form, or more\ntechnically, what a wonderful unity.  That part of the effect\nof beauty in a picture which is due to the idea is thus the\nfundamental but merely abstract element of unity, contributing\nto the complex aesthetic state only the simplest condition.\n\nThe case of literature presents an entirely new problem, for\nthe material of literature is itself, first of all, idea.\nLiterature deals with words, and words exist only by virtue of\ntheir meanings.  Even the sound of words is of importance\nprimarily for the additional meanings which it suggests, as the\nword liquid first means a fluid substance, and then by its\nsound suggests ease and smoothness, and only last of all is\nnoted as melodious.  Thus since meanings, ideas, are the\nmaterial of literature, we can speak of the beauty of ideas\nin literature only by an artificial sundering of elements that\nare properly in fusion.  Yet as we may speak of a motive or\nmusical idea and its working out, although strictly the idea\ninvolves its own working out, so we may conceive of the central\nthought of a literary work, and of its development.  But the\nrelation here is not of content and form, like the content and\nform of a picture; rather that of concentrated and diluted\nform.  So, too, as in music, we may distinguish form and\nstructure.  Structure is offered to the intellect--it clears\nand vivifies understanding; it is not felt, it is perceived.\nAnything which is made up of parts--beginning, middle, and end,\nclimax and resolution--possesses structure.  But form in the\nintimate sense is the intrinsic, inevitable relation of cause\nand effect; in this sense, it is seen to be truly content also.\nIn literature, as to structure, it is the relation of parts:\nas to form, it is the succession of events, the movement,\ncombination and resolution of separate ideas and emotions,\nwhich give us aesthetic pleasure or the reverse.  As action\nmust follow excitement, or despair satiety, so the relation\nof parts, the order of presentation, must be adapted to mutual\nreinforcement.  Thus the porter's scene in \"Macbeth\" is related\nto the neighboring scenes, as De Quincey has shown in his famous\nessay.  And just as in music the feeling of \"rightness\" ensues\nwhen the awaited note slips into place, so the feeling of\n\"rightness\" comes when the inevitable consequences follow the\npremise of a plot.\n\nThe particular separate ideas of such a development partake of\nbeauty, then, in so far as they minister to the movement of the\nwhole, just as the separate lines in a swaying, swirling robe\nof one of Botticelli's women minister to the whole conception.\nThe catastrophe, in other words, must be as inevitably related\nto the sequence of ideas as the final chords of a symphony to\nthe sequence of notes.  The attitude of mind with which we\nwelcome it is the same, whether on the plane of the responses\nof the psychological organism or of the ideal understanding.\n\n\nV\n\nBut before finally relegating the idea to its place in the\naesthetic scheme, we must ask whether the specific emotional\ncontent can claim independent aesthetic value; for we can\nscarcely ignore the fact that almost all naive response to\nliterature, and indeed to all forms of art, is, or is believed\nto be, specifically emotional.  Maupassant, in his introduction\nto \"Pierre et Jean,\" distinguishes thus between the demand of\nthe critic--\"Make me something fine according to your temperament,\"\n--and the cry of the public--\"Move me, terrify me, make we weep!\"\nAnd yet to the assertion of common sense that the desire of the\nnaive enjoyer of art is definite emotional excitement, we may\nventure to oppose a negative.  The average person who weeps at\nthe theatre, or over a novel, would no doubt repudiate the\nsuggestion that it is not primarily the emotion of terror, or\npity, that he feels.  But a closer interpretation shows that\nit is almost impossible to disengage, in such an experience, the\nparticular emotions.  What is felt is rather pleasurable excitement,\npleasure raised to the pitch of exaltation, with a fringe of\nemotional association.  The notion of specific emotions is\nillusory in the same sense that our notion of pleasure from\nspecific emotions in listening to music is illusory.  The ordinary\ndescriptions of music are all couched in emotional or even\nideational terms,--from the musical adventures of \"Charles\nAuchester\" down,--and yet we know, as Gurney says, that when, in\nlistening to music, we think we are yearning after the unutterable,\nwe are really yearning after the next note; and when we think it\nis the yearning that gives us pleasure, it is really the triumphant\nacceptance of the melodic rightness of that next note.  So the\nmuch-discussed Katharsis, or emotion of Tragedy, is not the\nexperience of emotions and pleasure in that experience, but\nrather pleasure in the experience of ideas, tinged with emotion,\nwhich belong to each other with precisely that musical rightness.\nKatharsis is indeed not the mark of Tragedy alone, although in\nTragedy it has a very great relative intensity; it is ultimately\nonly a designation for the specific aesthetic pleasure, to which\nI can give no better name than the oft-repeated one of triumphant\nacquiescence in the rightness of relations.  We think we feel a\nsituation directly, but what we really feel is pleasure in the\nrightness of the manner of the event, and in the moment of perfect\nexperience it gives us.  Such specific emotion as may be detected\nin any aesthetic experience is, then, covered by the definition\nof beauty only in so far as it has become form rather than content,\n--is valuable only in its relations rather than in itself.  The\nexperience of pity or fear, even though generalized, unselfish,\netc.,--after the various formulas of the expounders of dramatic\nemotion,--does not impart aesthetic character of itself; it\nbecomes aesthetic only if it appears at such a point in the\ntragedy, linked in such a way to the developing plot, that it\nbelongs to the unified and reciprocally harmonious circle of\nexperiences.\n\n\nVI\n\nBut we have up to this time consistently neglected the central\nidea of the work of art, and its claim to be included in the\naesthetic formula.  We have defined beauty as that which brings\nabout a state of harmonious completeness, of repose in activity,\nin the psychophysical and psychological realms.  This harmonious\nrepose can exist only with a disinterested attitude toward the\nobjects which have brought this state about.  Whether the Melian\nVenus or \"Hamlet\" or \"Lohengrin\" live, we care not; only that\nif they live, it shall be SO.  In this sense, our attitude is\ninterested, our will is active, but only toward the existence\nof the form.  But with the introduction of the central theme, we\ncease to be disinterested,--our hypothetical is changed to an\naffirmative.  The moral idea we must accept or reject, for it\nbears a direct relation to our personality.  We will, or do not\nwill, that, in the real world in which we ourselves have to live\nand struggle, certain forces shall be operative,--that there\nshall be the beauty of health, as in the \"Discobolus;\" material\nlove which is divine, as in the \"Sistine Madonna;\" that war shall\nbe horrible; that sloth unstriven against shall triumph over\nlove, as in \"The Statue and the Bust;\" that defiance of the\nsocial organism shall involve self-destruction, as in \"Anna\nKarenina.\"  The person or the combination of events expressing\nthis idea we do not seek in our personal experience, but we do\ndemand for our own a world in which this idea rules.  Thus it\nmust be admitted that there is, strictly speaking, at the core\nof every aesthetic response to a work of art containing an idea,\na non-aesthetic element, an element of personal and interested\njudgment.\n\nOn the other hand, this affirmation or acceptance of a moral idea\nimplies the quietude of the will; just that state of harmony, of\nrepose, which we have found to be the mark of the aesthetic on\nthe lower planes of being.  In so far, then, as we accept the\nmoral idea which a work of art presents, in so far that idea has\nthe power of bringing us to the state of harmony, and in so far\nit is beautiful.  And vice versa, works of art which leave us in\na state of moral rebellion are unbeautiful, not because they are\nimmoral, but because they are disturbing to the moral sense.\nLiterature which ignores the fundamental moral principle of the\nfreedom of the will, like the works of Flaubert, Maupassant, much\nof Zola, Loti, and Thomas Hardy, fails of beauty, inasmuch as it\nfails of the perfect reposeful harmony of human nature in its\nentirety.\n\nThus a thoroughgoing analysis of the nature of the aesthetic\nexperience in its simplest and most sensuous form has given us\na principle,--the principle of unity in harmonious functioning,--\nwhich has enabled us to follow the track of beauty into the more\ncomplex realms of ideas and of moral attitudes, and to discover\nthat there also the law of internal relation and of fitness for\nimitative response holds for all embodiments of beauty.  That\nharmonious, imitative response, the psychophysical state known\non its feeling side as aesthetic pleasure, we have seen to be,\nfirst, a kind of physiological equilibrium, a \"coexistence of\nopposing impulses which heightens the sense of being while it\nprevents action,\" like the impulses to movement corresponding\nto geometrical symmetry; secondly, a psychological equilibrium,\nin which the flow of ideas and impulses is a circle rounding\nupon itself, all associations, emotions, expectations indissolubly\nlinked with the central thought and leading back only to it, and\nproceeding in an irrevocable order, which it yet adapted to the\npossibilities of human experience; and thirdly, a quietude of\nthe will, in the acceptance of the given moral attitude for the\nwhole scheme of life.  Thus is given, in the fusion of these\nthree orders of mental life, the perfect moment of unity and\nself-completeness.","title":"The Psychology of Beauty","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":64650}