of division of the wall, usually marking off the different stories,
and by viewing the columns in a similar fashion as having no supporting
function--which is actually the case--and as simply serving the purpose
of framing the arches. At most they merely indicate the direction of
the chief contending forces,--the parallel lintels signalizing the
force of weight, and the vertical columns, standing one upon the other,
pointing the movement of the upward force. They have, therefore, a
pictorial rather than a dynamic significance.

Differences of feeling in arched forms depend upon the relative height
of arches and supporting piers and columns. The vertical effect is
strongly emphasized when the latter are relatively high, while the
effect of weight is increased in flattened arches, which for this
reason are especially appropriate for crypts and prison entrances.
Interesting complications are introduced in arcades or intersecting
vaults, where a single column serves as a support for two or more
arches; for there the vertical force is divided, flowing in different
directions in the little triangular piece of wall between, or along
the ribs of the vaults. Something similar occurs in the Byzantine dome
on pendentives, only instead of supporting the horizontal weight of
a gallery or a vault, the triangular pendentives meet the outward
thrust of a superposed dome.

In Renaissance architecture and the modern classical revivals, where
Greek and Roman styles are freely adapted to novel modes of life and
purpose, no essentially new form was added to architectural speech.
There were combinations of old forms into more complex structures, but
no new important elements. The most outstanding novelty is perhaps the
reversed relation between the whole and the parts. [Footnote: See P.
Frankl, _Die Entwicklungsphasen der neueren Baukunst_, 1914.] In
the classic styles, whether arched or Greek, the whole is built up of
the parts additively; each is a relatively independent center of energy
complete in itself; first the columns, then the architrave, frieze,
and cornice, then the pediment; or first one row of arches, then another
row on top of this, and so on. Coordination is the governing principle.
But in the modern adaptations, even where coordination rather than
subordination rules in the pictorial sphere, the whole is first
dynamically and the parts are secondary. In the typical Renaissance
facade, for example, the arches of the windows are rather openings in
the walls than supporting members. They are centers of little eddies
of force, rather than independent parts of the main determining stream
of energy. The wall rises as a whole to its heavy overhanging cornice,
despite the horizontal divisions marking the stories. There are,
however, important differences between the various modern types; the
earlier Renaissance forms, for example, keeping closer to the antique
than the later Baroque and Rococo.

The complete triumph of the vertical tendency, foreshadowed in the
Roman, was proclaimed in Gothic architecture in the use of the pointed
arch. For in the round arch the vertical has not conquered after all;
the horizontal is still active there, even to the apex of the arch,
where the tangential line is parallel to the earth, the line of weight.
But in the pointed style the victory of the vertical is clearly
decisive,--the upward and inward forces, by elongating and narrowing
the curve of the arch to a point, have dominated the downward and
outward. The great height of the piers, the gabled roofs, the ribs of
the vaults the pointed form of the windows, the towers, spires, and
pinnacles,--all proclaim it. Yet this victory does not occur without
opposition; for the higher the vaulting, the greater the weight to be
carried; the greater, therefore, the outward thrust, which had to find
its expression and its stay in the buttress. But even the buttress,
although it bears witness to the outward and horizontal force of weight,
was nevertheless so fashioned with its gable and pinnacle, or its own
arched form, as to aid the upward movement. The thinness of walls and
partitions, and the piercing of these with arches and windows, by
lightening the force of weight, also contributed to increase the
vertical movement. At sight of a true Gothic cathedral, we feel
ourselves fairly lifted off the ground and rushed upward.

In thinking of the beauty of architecture, we are all too apt to
consider the exterior exclusively, forgetting that the inside of a
building, where we live, is even more important practically, and is
capable of at least as great an aesthetic effect.

The characteristic aesthetic effect of the interior is a function of
the inclosed space, the volume, not of the inclosing walls taken singly.
The walls are only the limits of this space, they are not the space
itself. Of course, the walls within have their own beauty, of surface
and pervading energy, but this does not differ markedly from that of
the walls seen from the outside, and what we have established for the
one holds for the other. But the beauty of the inclosed space is
something entirely new.

In itself, however, mere volume of space is no more aesthetic than
mere bounding line or surface; in order to become beautiful, it must
become alive. But how can space--the most abstract thing in the
world--become alive? By having the activities which it incloses felt
into it. Just as our bodies are felt to be alive because our activities
express themselves there, so our rooms, because we live and move within
them. As we enter a cathedral and look down the long aisle, the movement
of our eyes inevitably suggests the movement of our bodies; or, as we
look up and our eyes follow the ribs of the vaulting, it is as if we
ourselves were borne aloft; in the imagination we move through the
open spaces; and since we do not actually move, we locate our impulses
to movement, not in our bodies, but in the space through which we take
our imagined flight. Every object suggests movement to it, and we fill
the intervening space with this imagined movement, provided only we
stay our activities and give time for the imagination to work its will.
Thus all space may become alive with the possibilities of movement
which it offers.

The aesthetic effects of volume vary chiefly according to size and
shape. In order to be appreciated, these effects must in general be
somewhat striking; otherwise they pass unnoticed, and we simply take
the interiors of our buildings as matters of course.

It is a curious fact that an impression of vastness can be secured by
inclosing a relatively small space. A square, like the Place de la
Concorde, or even the inside of a cathedral, produces a feeling of
size almost, if not quite, as great as an open prairie or sea. The
reason, I suppose, is that an inclosed space offers definite points
as stimuli and goals for suggested movements. As we imaginatively reach
out and touch these points, we seem to encompass their distance; and
the volume of our own bodies seems to be magnified accordingly. The
boundaries of the space become a second and greater integument. This
is of decisive importance; for the aesthetic appreciation of size is
relative to an appreciation of the size of our own bodies; in nature
itself there is nothing either large or small. Along with the sense
of vastness goes a sense of freedom; the one is the aesthetic experience
resulting from the imaginative reaching of the goal of a movement, the
other is the feeling of the imagined movement itself.

When, on the other hand, an inclosure is small, as in the case of a
cell, and especially when the ceiling or vault is low, as in a crypt,
it feels cabined and confined, because our own possibilities of movement
are restricted. In order to avoid this feeling, if a space is limited
in one direction, it must be free in another; if narrow, it must be
long; if small in plan, it must be high, as in a tower.

The form of an inclosed space is also expressive. There are two chief
types, the longitudinal and the radial; but since these may exist
either in plan or in elevation, four possibilities result: the
longitudinal-horizontal, as in an aisle; the longitudinal-vertical,
as in a tower; the radial-horizontal, illustrated by every equilateral
plan--triangle, square, regular polygon, and above all, the most perfect
form of this type, the circle; and finally, the radial-vertical, of
which domed spaces, like the Pantheon or St. Paul's, are examples. The
terms used to designate them, together with the examples, afford a
good idea of what these space forms are, making further description
unnecessary. It is interesting to observe how different the expression
of the square and the triangle is when they determine the plan of an
inclosed space from what it is when they are the shapes of walls.
[Footnote: Compare Fritz Hoeber: _Systematik der
Architekturproportionen_, II, B, a. ] In the case of the latter,
according to the analysis which we have given of them, the figures
represent an interplay of antagonistic horizontal and vertical forces,
about an axis drawn perpendicular to the midpoint of the base line;
while as plans they express forces homogeneous in kind radiating from
their centers. The feeling of longitudinal forms is one of continued
movement, forward or upward as the case may be; when the distance is
very great, the feeling is of infinity, either of vista, as in an
aisle, or of height, as in a tower, for even when the point at the end
is clearly seen and known, we continue it in the imagination. The
radial forms, on the other hand, even when the axes are very long,
express completeness and security, for no matter how far we go in any
one direction, we have to proceed along a line which brings us back
to our starting point; in following to the top the movement of the
curved line of a dome or an apse, the continuation of the same line
carries us down on the other side to a point corresponding to the one
from which we set out; if we wander, we return home.

With reference to the division of interiors into parts, the same two
types are exemplified which we found in studying the visual and the
dynamic aspects of buildings. Either the parts of the interior space
are clearly marked off from each other, and the perception of the whole
which they constitute is reached by a process of summation; or else,
to one standing within, the space is first perceived as a whole, and
its parts, lacking clear definition, are perceived subsequently. In
the former type, the parts are of pronounced individuality, and the
whole is their free and joint work; in the latter, the parts are merged,
and tend to be lost in the whole. These two possibilities exist whether
the space be of radial or longitudinal form. In general, the classical
styles lend themselves to the coordinate type of division of the
interior, while the later styles favor the subordination of the parts
to the whole.

The other factors in the beauty of architecture, besides the expression
of the forces resident in its forms, can receive only scant notice
from us. Among these is light--its admission, exclusion, and diffusion.
A house with ample windows flooded with sunshine shares the feeling
of an open day; a cathedral, dimly lighted, stimulates a mood of
brooding mystery and meditation, like some dark forest. Another factor
is color. Color plays a double part in architecture: first, to enliven
the neutral tones of certain materials; and second, to impart specific
moods. It was no barbaric taste, but a keen feeling for life and warmth
that induced the Greeks to paint their temples; and without their rose
windows, Gothic cathedrals are like faces from which the glow of life
is departing. The different colors have the same feelings in
architecture that they have in painting. The reds and purples of
ecclesiastical stained glass stimulate the passion of adoration, the
blues deepen it, and the yellows seem to offer a glimpse of heavenly
bliss. Sound, its presence or its absence, is another factor in
architectural expression: the quiet of the church in contrast with the
noise of the busy street outside, the peal of the organ, or the chorus
of young voices. Although architecture is a spatial art and music a
temporal art, they nevertheless go well together because the emotions
aroused by both are vague and voluminous, and the sounds, reverberating
from the walls and filling the inclosed spaces, seem to fuse with them.
Ornamental carving performs a diversifying and enlivening function
similar to that of color. So long as its lines follow those of the
architectural forms, it may well be rich and elaborate. It is fitting,
moreover, that buildings designed to be houses of the gods should
contain their images, and that the same spirit that expresses itself
in playful lines should become embodied in griffin and gargoyle.
Finally, erected in the open, with no shelter or enframement, a building
is, in large measure, a part of nature and possesses something of the
beauty of nature. Rooted to one place like a tree, it shares the beauty
of its site, and responds to the ever varying effects of light and
shadow, rain and mist and snow.

The abstract beauty of architecture can be understood without any
knowledge of the purposes of buildings. A Hindu who knows nothing of
our civilization cannot fail to be responsive to Notre Dame, any more
than we can fail to admire the beauty of Taj Mahal. The very simplest
architectural forms, like the pyramids or the Washington monument,
provided they are of sufficient size and mass, speak an eloquent
language which is immediately understood. And the content of their
speech is not so abstract as might be judged from our previous studies
of it; for in architecture, as in music, concrete emotions and
sentiments flow into the channel cut by the form. Longing, aspiration,
and mystery have universally been felt into a form pointing skyward;
and the feeling of incompleteness has been lost, and security regained,
in an overarching dome.

There is, however, this difference between architecture and music. In
music, the emotional content is purely personal; while in architecture,
it may become social and historical. Architectural purposes are all
social: the purposes of a family, a nation, a cult. And the purposes
of the greatest of buildings--of those which serve the nation and
religion--are also historical; about them gather the traditions of
a community. Centers of the life of a people, created by it and enduring
with it, they become its symbols; or outlasting it, memorials and
witnesses to it. The vague emotions aroused by the architectural forms
are pointed and enriched by this spirit: the vastness, seclusion,
magnificence, mystery, and aspiration of the Gothic cathedral become
associated with the life of the medieval Catholic church; the fine
balance, clarity, and simplicity of the Greek temple with the best in
Greek culture. This interpretation of a building in terms of its purpose
and history is necessary to a complete aesthetic appreciation. Without
it, a building may have many beauties, all the beauties which we have
analyzed; but they are all separate, and there is no beauty of the
whole. It is the life which the many parts and aspects serve that makes
them into one.

I shall close this chapter with a brief discussion of architectural
composition. The unity of a building is constituted primarily by the
necessary adjustment of part to part which makes possible the life
that it incloses. How the parts serve this purpose is not immediately
evident to intuition; nor can it be; yet it should be intelligible to
a thoughtful study. The knowledge thus gained may then enter into an
imaginative vision, for which the building will seem like an organism
pulsing with life.

This purposive unity cannot well be secured without spatial contiguity;
here, as in sculpture, a unified life demands a unified material. Yet
sometimes detached structures belong together functionally, and may
be felt as one aesthetically, provided they are similar in design and
some one of them is dominant; otherwise, each claims to be a distinct
individual, and aesthetic rivalry is the result.

Functional unity, although necessary, is not sufficient for aesthetic
unity; in addition, there must be formal unity--design, composition.
To study this adequately would require a separate treatise, which has
not yet been written, so far as I know, with anything approaching
philosophical depth and completeness; but for our plan it will be
sufficient to show how the general principles of aesthetic form are
illustrated in architecture; and because of the perspicuity of things
spatial, these principles are nowhere else so lucidly manifest.

Since architecture is a spatial art, unity in variety is chiefly a
matter of harmony and balance rather than of evolution, and of these
harmony is perhaps the most conspicuous. Harmony is secured in many
ways.

First, by giving the whole building or parts of the building a simple
geometrical form readily perceived,--for example, the cruciform plan
of many Gothic cathedrals, the oblong plan and oblong surmounted by
a triangle in the facade of the Greek temple, the octagonal shape of
a Renaissance chapel. A higher degree of harmony is obtained when the
same shape is repeated throughout the various parts of the
building,--the cylinder in the columns, the triangle or semicircle in
the arches and gables. A step further is taken in the same direction
when the different similar parts are all of the same size, as in the
Greek temple, where the columns are all of one size, and similar parts
of columns of equal size, and the metopes and triglyphs likewise.

A more complex type of harmony, since it admits of greater variety,
is proportionality. Proportionality may be of various kinds. It may
be merely the existence of a definite numerical relation between the
dimensions of single parts, or the areas of various parts, of a
building. This, in turn, may be either a simple arithmetical relation,
such as exists between the parts of a Greek facade, each being some
simple multiple of the unit or module; or a more complex relation like
the Golden Section, where the smaller is to the larger dimension as
the larger is to the sum of both; or like that which obtains when
different parts form a geometrical series, where each is smaller or
larger than the preceding by some fraction of the latter. The relation
between the length and breadth of the facade of the Ducal Palace in
Florence illustrates the Golden Section; the heights of the stories
of the Peller House in Nuremberg form a geometrical series. This type
of harmony is most complete when the proportion between the dimensions
of the different parts is the same as that of the whole building,--by
the ancients called _concinnitas_ because it produces a feeling
akin to that of musical harmony. Dominance of a particular kind of
line, horizontal or vertical, also gives harmony. Finally, harmony is
secured by sameness of direction of line: the alignment of windows or
parallelism between moldings dividing the surfaces of walls, for
example.

The relations, so seemingly mathematical, upon which architectural
harmony is based, need not be exact, for two reasons: minor deviations
are not perceptible, and even when perceptible, they give to the whole
a feeling of life. Our experience with living things has taught us
that, despite their orderliness, there is no exact mathematical
regularity in their proportions; hence forms which cannot be precisely
formulated are better fitted to symbolize life to us than the rigidly
geometrical. The same experience has taught us that the curvilinear
forms are closer to life than the angular; hence again the tendency,
for aesthetic purposes, to introduce minute departures from the
plumb-line and rule. There is, however, a type of life specifically
human, the life of reason, which is best symbolized by mathematical
relations; hence the Greeks, and all those who have followed the
classical ideal, all who have had a passion for reason, have felt the
circle and the square, and every other exact embodiment of clarity and
intelligence, to be beautiful. In no other art has the passion for the
intelligible been so perfectly expressed as in classical architecture.

Next in importance to harmony as a mode of unity in variety in
architecture is balance. Balance implies emphatic variety, or contrast.
One mode of balance, that between the upward and the downward
tendencies, we have already discussed. There is another mode, similar
to that which exists in painting and sculpture, the balance between
the right and left members of a building. In order that this type of
balance may be appreciated, there must be some axis or line of mediation
between the parts, from which the opposing tendencies take their start;
otherwise we view the parts together, instead of in opposition. For
example, there is balance between two wings of a building which are
separated by some central member or link; balance between the aisles
of a church on either side of the nave; balance between the sets of
three columns right and left of the door in the Greek hexastyle temple.
Such cases of symmetry between equal right and left parts are the
simplest examples of balance; but there are other, more complex types.
For example, the parts may be unequal, yet balance nevertheless,
provided their inequality is compensated for by some enrichment of
design or ornament in the lesser part. Or again, there may be a balance
between contrasting shapes, such as the square and the triangle, when
they make an equal claim upon the attention.

Although, since architecture is a static art, evolution is not so
important as harmony and balance, it exists nevertheless. In a
colonnade, as you look down it, with the height of the columns
diminishing in perspective, there is a rhythmical movement of eye and
attention toward the last column as a goal. There is the same rhythmical
movement in following the arches on either side of the nave of a church
leading to the apse.

There is a rhythmical movement in the progressive diminution of the
height of the stories of a building, going towards the top. In such
spatio-temporal rhythms, the proportional equality between the members
corresponds to the equal intervals in temporal rhythms, and the
alternation between member and intervening space, or between member
and line of division, corresponds to the alternation between heavy and
light accents. Last, evolution is present in architecture, whenever,
often without rhythmical divisions, the attention is impelled to move
along lines that meet at a point which serves as a climax, as in all
triangular forms where the lines lead up to the apex,--pointed windows
or arches, towers ending in belfries or pinnacles.

Dominance, with its correlative, subordination, are everywhere present
in architecture. In general, size and a central position, which usually
go together, determine preeminence. The largest masses and those which
occupy a central position inevitably rule the others. The towers and
the facade dominate the exterior of a Gothic cathedral, the middle
doorway is superior to those which flank it, and within, the central
and larger nave dominates the smaller aisles on either side. When there
are many dominant elements, as is necessarily the case in a large
building, they must be unified by balance, if there are two, or by
subordination to one of them, if three or more; otherwise, each claims
to be the whole and the building falls apart into its members. There
cannot well be three vertical dominant parts, because the central one
makes a claim to preeminence which cannot be satisfied without
superiority in size. A central member should, therefore, either be
made larger than those flanking it, or else should be reduced to the
status of a mere subordinate link between the others.

In the horizontal division of a building into stories--as, for example,
in the Palazzo Farnese near Rome--it is easier for the prominent parts
to be equal, because they are better united by the evident contiguity
of their masses, by their inclosure in a simple geometrical shape, and
enframement between base and overhanging cornice. Yet here also we
observe the tendency to make the middle larger or otherwise dominant,
exemplified even in the building cited, where the central part is
distinguished by the ornamental shield, upon which the attention is
focused. When there are four horizontal divisions, our tendency is to
divide them into groups of two; but unless this grouping is clearly
marked by a molding or other such device, our purpose is defeated
because each of the two can itself be divided into two parts, whence
we get the four parts again, among which there is not sufficient unity.
When, however, there are more than four stories, they cease to function
as individuals and become members of a series, the rhythm of which
creates the necessary unity. Even in this case, however, the tendency
toward grouping into three with the middle dominant persists; for, as
a rule, the stories are divided by moldings into three parts, of which
the central part is the largest. Four equal stories are difficult
because they at once resist an arrangement into threes and yet fall
short of being the series which they suggest. When a series of stories
is divided into three parts, a superior aesthetic effect is gained if
the height of each story diminishes in some regular ratio from the
bottom to the top, thus expressing the gradual overcoming of the
downward force by the upward,--the rhythm becomes dynamical as well
as kinematical.

All good architectural styles illustrate the principle of impartiality,
which demands the careful elaboration of parts. Yet, as we have
indicated, there are two possibilities: some styles are founded on the
idea of the subordination of the parts to the whole, and so permit of
a less elaborate execution of details, while others are based on the
idea of coordination among the parts within the whole, and so require
that each part be vividly clear, distinct from the others, and possessed
of a pronounced individual beauty. These two types are exemplified in
each of the three aspects of a building--the visual, the dynamic, and
the voluminal. For the Greek and Roman architecture and for that of
the Renaissance, the former was the ideal; while the latter is clearly
characteristic of the more modern forms; between these stand the
Byzantine, Romanesque, and Gothic, in which a union of the two types,
in what has well been called an organic type, was attempted, and perhaps
achieved in the last. The former has the feeling of the mechanical,
rational view of life, which is the classical; the latter has the
feeling of the mystical and organic view, which is modern.[Footnote:
See P. Frankl, _Die Entwieklungsphasen der neueren Baukunst_, 1914.]

CHAPTER XIV

THE FUNCTION OF ART: ART AND MORALITY

That an interest is innocent and pleasure giving is no longer considered
sufficient to justify its existence; it must also, in order to be
sanctioned in our jealous and economical world, prove itself a
beneficent influence upon the total man and the group. For the time
being at least, the day of _laissez-faire_ is done; men can no
longer appeal to their personal needs, their inner necessities, or
even their consciences, in defense of their activities. Public opinion,
and sometimes reason, are the only arbiters of right. It may well
happen that, in a new age, men will be more generous and less exacting,
once again recognizing inherent rights in spontaneous activities; but
that age is not ours. Not even art can claim privilege; in vain will
the artist boast of his genius or the art-lover of his delights, if
he can exhibit no pervasive good. It is not enough, therefore, that
we should have described the peculiar, inward value of art; we must
further establish that it has a function in the general life.

Three classes of people, the puritans, the philistines, and the
proletarians, question the value of art in this sense. These classes
are, of course, not new to our civilization, but are rather perennial
types of human nature, appearing under one or another name and guise
in every age. To the puritan, art is immoral; to the philistine, it
is useless; to the proletarian, it is a cruel waste.

One illustration of the complexity of human culture is the fact that
art has now been regarded as the symbol and ally of goodness, and now
as its enemy. This paradox can, I think, be partly explained by making
a distinction between the ethical and the moral point of view regarding
conduct. From the one point of view, the good belongs to all free,
creative acts that look toward the growth and happiness of individuals;
from the other point of view, it consists in conformity to law,
convention, and custom. It is evident that these two attitudes must
sometimes come into open or secret conflict. For law and convention
represent either an effort to fix and stabilize modes of conduct that
have proved themselves to be good under certain conditions; or else,
as is more often true than is admitted, an attempt to generalize the
good of some special class or type of men and impose it as a norm for
all; and obviously these efforts will, from time to time, be opposed
either to the freedom of individuals, or to their growth, under changing
conditions.

Now in the sense defined, the spirit of art is fundamentally ethical
and, at the same time, fundamentally non-moral. It is fundamentally
ethical, for art is itself a freely creative and happy activity, and
tends to propagate itself in spontaneity in other fields; it is an
inspiration in every struggle for liberty and the remolding of the
world. The artist and art lover, who value the expression of
individuality in art, cannot fail to appreciate it outside of art. On
the other hand, the spirit of art is fundamentally non-moral, for the
sthetic attitude is one of sympathy--an attempt at once to express
life and to feel at one with it; it demands of us that we take the
point of view of the life expressed and, for the moment at any rate,
refrain from a merely external judgment. Through art we are compelled
to sympathize with the aspiration towards growth, towards happiness,
even when it leads to rebellion against our own standards and towards
what we call sin. The sympathy, realism, and imagination of art are
antagonistic to conformist morality. By making us intimately acquainted
with individuals, art leads to skepticism of all general rules.

The puritan, therefore, who is an exponent of the extremest and
narrowest conformist morality, is more nearly right in his
interpretation of the relation between art and morality than more
liberal people who, because of their love of art, seek to ignore or
palliate the facts. Hence, in order to defend art, one must reckon
seriously with the puritan.

The puritan is fearful, above all, of works of art that represent moral
evil. The method of artistic representation, which aims at awakening
sympathy for the life portrayed, is bound, he thinks, to demoralize
both the artist and the spectator. But art is something more than
sympathy, and there are other aspects of the aesthetic experience which
tend to render that sympathy innocuous, even from the standpoint of
the puritan. In the first place, the sympathy is usually with an
imagined life that has no direct relation to the will and gives the
spectator no opportunity to enter into and share it--he participates
through the imagination, not through the senses. Moreover, neither the
mind nor the will is a _tabula rasa_; no mature person comes to
a work of art without certain habits and preferences already
predetermined, which no mere imagination can destroy, but only, if at
all, some concrete opportunity and temptation. Hence men can lead a
manifold life, partly in the imagination and partly in action, without
any corruption of heart or paralysis of will. In real conduct, to lead
a double life is demoralizing because there choices are exclusive and
each of the two lives tends to interfere with and spoil the other; but
imagination does not conflict with reality, for they have no point of
contact and do not belong to the same world.

In the second place, a work of art is an appeal to mind as well as to
sympathetic feeling. It is no mere stirring of emotion and passion,
but a means to insight into them. The attitude of reflection which it
engenders is unfavorable to impetuous action. Providing no immediate
stimulus to action, it allows time for a better second thought to
intervene. Even when it offers suggestions for unwonted acts, it
furnishes the spirit and the knowledge requisite for determining whether
they will fit into the scheme of life of the spectator. It is
characteristic of the puritanic critics of art, in their eagerness to
find motives for condemnation, to overlook this element of reflection.

It is forgotten, finally, that by providing an imaginative experience
of passion and adventure, art often becomes rather a substitute for
than an incentive to them. The perfection of form, the deep repose and
circle-like completeness of the work of art, tend to prevent one from
seeking a corresponding real experience, which would have none of these
qualities, but perhaps only misery and wear and tear instead. Thus the
work of art may propagate itself in a search for new aesthetic
experiences rather than in analogous conduct.

To the artist who is living the evil life which he expresses, there
can be even less danger in expression, than to the spectator. For the
expression is not the cause of his life, but only its efflorescence.
The roots of evil lie deep below in the subsoil of instinct. Without
expression, life would be much the same, only secret instead of
articulate. The puritan shows a shocking naivete in thinking that he
can reform life by destroying its utterance. Moreover, to express life
implies a certain mastery over it, a power of detachment and reflection,
which are fundamentally ethical and may lead to a new way of living.

Every form of life has an inalienable right to expression. In order
to be judged fairly, it must be allowed to plead for itself, and art
is its best spokesman. And that we should know life sympathetically
is of practical importance; for otherwise we shall not know how to
change it or indeed that it ought to be changed at all. Only by knowing
other ways of life can we be certain of the relative worth of our own
way; knowledge alone gives certitude. Without knowledge we run the
risk of becoming ruthless destroyers of things which an intelligent
sympathy might well preserve and find a place for in the world.

To all these considerations the puritan will doubtless oppose a truth
impossible to deny. Experience, he will say, is one, not many;
imagination and action are not separated by an impassable wall; things
merely imagined or dreamed, even when they do not directly issue in
action, may nevertheless influence conduct through a slow and subtle
transforming effect upon the sentiments and valuations which make up
its background. Character can be maintained only by a vigilant and
steady control over impulses which are always threatening rebellion;
purity of mind only through the rigid exclusion of the sensual,
luxurious, and ignoble; imaginative sympathy with evil, even when
sublimated in art, must necessarily undermine the one and becloud the
other. "If thine eye offend thee, cut it out and cast it from thee."

The truth which the puritan announces does not, I think, warrant the
inference which he draws from it or alter the situation as I have
described it. For morality, to be genuine, must be a choice; the good
must know its alternative or it is not good. Only those who already
have a penchant for sin will be corrupted by imaginative sympathy with
passion; a character that cannot resist such an influence is already
undermined. Life itself is the great temptation; how can one who cannot
look with equanimity upon statues and pictures fail to be seduced by
live men and women? If men can resist the suggestions that emanate
from life they can surely withstand those that come from art. And mere
purity of mind is not equal in value to that insight into the whole
of life which a freely creative art provides. We wish to penetrate
sympathetically all of our existence; nothing human shall remain foreign
to us; we would enter into it all; there is no region of the grotesque,
the infernal, or the sinful from which we would be shut out. In
comparison with the sublimity of this demand for the complete
appreciation of life, the warnings of a rigorous moralism seem timorous,
and the sanctuary of purity in which it would have us take refuge, a
prison.

Whatever conflict there may be between the spirit of art and conformist
morality, there is none with a genuine and rational ethics. For the
latter would formulate ways of living suited to the diversity of
individuals and sympathetic with their every impulse and fancy. It
would impose external constraint only where necessary for the existence
and perpetuation of social life, leaving to personal tact, good will,
and temperance the finer adjustments of strain. But apart from aesthetic
culture, there can be no rational morality, for that alone engenders
the imaginative sympathy with individual diversity upon which the
latter rests. Without imaginative sympathy morality will always be
coarse, ruthless, and expressive of the needs and sentiments of some
special type which sets out to reform or govern the world. Under such
a regimen, which is actual in every community devoid of imagination,
virtue must always remain suspect and vice tolerable; the one a
hypocrisy, the other a secret and venial indulgence, and nature will
take its revenge upon the law in violent or perverse compensations.
Hence, instead of being a hindrance, art ought to be a help to a
rational morality: its realism should foster sincerity, its imagination,
sympathy and justice. The moralist inspired by art would seek to impose
upon men only that kind of form and order which is characteristic of
art--one which respects the peculiarities of the material with which
it works, and issues in a system in which all elements freely
participate. [Footnote: Compare Schiller, _On the Aesthetic Education
of Man_, Fourth Letter: "The civilized man makes nature his friend,
and honors her freedom, while he merely fetters her caprice."]

The philistine's objection to art is that it is useless. And if we
only knew what was really useful, this would be a damning indictment.
But, not being much given to abstract reflection, the philistine is
usually at a loss to inform us. However, by talking with him, we can
eventually divine what he thinks the useful to be. Useful is what
contributes to the procurement of those things which he and his
congeners value--material wealth, power, and sensual enjoyment. Art
is useless because it will not prepare a banquet, build a bridge, or
help to run a business corporation. The artist is a contemptible fellow
because he cares more for his art than for the things of the world;
for whatever the worldling values he thinks every one else should
value.

To the artist, criticism of this kind seems to betray the most shameless
arrogance, and he meets contempt with contempt. Who is he that would
be the judge between worldly goods and beauty? Surely the philistine
is no competent judge; for he only can judge fairly between two values
who appreciates both, and, by his own confession, the philistine does
not appreciate art. Hence the claim of the philistine seems not to
merit consideration. Through his lack of sympathy for art, he puts
himself beyond the possibility of fruitful debate. In this he is unlike
the puritan, who is often all too sensitive to beauty for his own
good--hence his alarms.

If the objection of the philistine were the same as the proletarian's,
that art is a luxury, a waste of the energies of the community, which
might better be employed in feeding the hungry and saving sinners, it
would be more worthy of a hearing; and so he often represents it. But
in this he is hardly sincere; and the appropriate answer is a _tu
quoque_, the fitting reply to every piece of insincere criticism.
Does the philistine feed the poor and save the sinners? Who is commonly
more careless of the workers' needs and more cruel to the fallen in
his self-righteous probity? For the philistine is often a puritan.
And who is more luxurious than he? Who consumes more in his own person
of the energies of the toilers? It costs little to maintain an artist,
but it taxes thousands to support the philistine and his wife. Of
course, in return, the worldling performs a service to the community
in the organization of industries, but many of these do not sustain
the needs of the masses and are devoted to the manufacture of luxuries
for the well-to-do.

The insincerity of the philistine's attitude is disclosed by his changed
attitude towards the artist who acquires fame and wealth through his
art. For now that the artist shows himself capable of getting the
things the philistine values, the latter accords him esteem. Or let
an interest in art become fashionable, and once again the philistine
is won over.

The traditional hostility between the philistine and the artist is
offensive to reason, which would discover points of contact and
reconciliation between all attitudes. One apparent place of meeting
might seem to be just the worldling's love of luxury itself. Luxury
is a development of pleasure of sense beyond the necessary, paralleling
the freedom and refinement of sensation in art. There is, moreover,
a certain imaginative quality in reputation and glory, so well-prized
by the worldling, which, as we shall see, is akin to the ideality of
art. And yet both the imagination and the luxury of the worldling are
usually lacking in one element essential to real kinship with the
spirit of art--disinterestedness. The worldling's dreams of glory are
projections of ambition, his luxuries subtle stimulations of appetite
or instruments of display, her self-adornment a fine self-exhibition
or coquetry. The love of insight, the free emotion, the enjoyment of
sensuous harmonies for their own sake, are lacking or subordinate.
Glory and luxury are too often mere masks of ambition and appetite,
and at best counterfeits of beauty. Nevertheless, the luxurious
developments of ambition and appetite are ever on the verge of tending
toward the aesthetic. For when ambition has no longer to struggle against
the world and is satisfied, the imagination that served it may become
free; and when appetite is cloyed, the instrumentalities of sensuous
pleasure can find a new meaning as beautiful. Then the worldling becomes
the patron of the artist and the two are reconciled. And all along
this result was preparing. For instinct seldom completely dominates
imagination and sensation; there is always some aesthetic freedom in
the self-adornment and display of the wealthy. The absence of anxiety
may release aesthetic interests that would have died in the struggle
for existence; prosperity is often the herald of beauty.

The proletarian's criticism of art is of unimpeachable sincerity, for
when he talks of art as a luxury he speaks from the heart and in answer
to bitter experience of want. There is a genuine element of moral
indignation in his feeling that there must be something wrong with a
public conscience that countenances, even glorifies extravagance, all
the while that women slave and children die of underfeeding and neglect.
This feeling is intensified when he compares the thousands paid for
a single hour of a prima donna's song or a playwright's wit with his
own yearly wage laboriously earned. What supreme worth does art possess
that it should be valued so disproportionately?

Yet, sincere as this complaint is, it is largely misdirected; for art
is not the extravagance which it may superficially seem to be. Most
of the best art has been produced by poor men who never dreamed of the
prices that would be paid for their work when they were old or after
they were dead. And these prices represent no consumption of the labor
and capital of the community, but only a transference of wealth from
one man to another. Even when the artist is paid large sums for his
picture or opera or play, these sums do not represent their real cost,
but only what they can command in a market controlled by rich consumers.
The real cost of genuine art is very small--only enough to maintain
the artist in freedom for his work; for he would still produce without
the incentive of large rewards. The seeming extravagance of art cannot,
therefore, be blamed upon art itself, but upon the price system of
modern capitalist economy. And this, of course, is clearly perceived
by the "intellectual proletarians," who are willing to accord to the
artist a place of honor as fellow-worker and "comrade," and direct
their attacks, not upon him, but upon capitalism.

There is, however, a deeper root to the proletarian's grievance against
the artist--the feeling that the moral principle of mutuality is
violated in their relationship. The workman plows for him, cooks for
him, builds for him, spins for him, but what does he do in return? He
paints pictures, makes statues, writes novels or poems or plays or
sonatas which the workman has neither the leisure nor the education
to enjoy. The money paid by the artist to the artisan represents nothing
which the former rightfully owns or can give, but only a claim to the
labor of other men, enforced by the system of wage-economy. Of course,
not only art but all speculation, all pure science and disinterested
historical knowledge, is subject to this criticism. And such criticism
is no longer purely academic, for to-day there exist large masses of
men in every community determined to bring about a "world dictatorship
of the proletariat" based on just this principle of mutuality in the
relations of men. Is this principle itself rational, and would art
survive in a regime which embodied it? These, I repeat, are no longer
speculative, but intensely practical problems.

Those who fear for art in a society where the process of democratization
should go to its extreme limit of development point to the moving
picture, the cheap magazine story and novel, the vaudeville and
"musical" comedy, as a hint of what to expect. These, they will say,
are the popular forms of art, to the production of which the artist
would have to devote his time and skill in return for subsistence.
Under the present system the people get what they want, but in a
proletarian state nobody would be allowed to get anything else.

Of course, as to what would happen in a workers' republic, were it
ever constituted, we can only speculate; but where we cannot know,
there hope has an equal chance with fear. We have the single example
of the Russian experiment from which to make inferences, the general
validity of which is seriously limited by the peculiarities of the
Russian nature and situation. But there, at any rate, we do know that
efforts have been made to advance general education, to bring the
classic literature within reach of the masses, and to encourage opera
and drama. In Russia, at all events, the leaders of the revolutionary
movement have sought rather to destroy what they believe to be a
monopoly of culture than culture itself; and in England also they have
a similar aim.

There can be little doubt, I think, that our capitalist economy does
promote a monopoly of culture. Through their control of the market,
the wealthy are able to bid up the prices of works of art until they
are beyond the reach of the less prosperous. As a result, the best
paintings and sculptures, with the exception of those that find their
way into museums, are accumulated in inaccessible private collections,
and opera and music are made needlessly expensive. One very evil
consequence is the substitution of a purely pecuniary standard of
valuation for aesthetic standards. I know a painter who made the
experiment of reducing the price of his pictures to twenty-five dollars,
in the hope that many people who really loved art but were unable to
pay large prices would buy them, and that thus, by selling many of his
pictures at a low price, he would be able to make as much money as if
he sold only a few at the prevailing high rates. The experiment failed
completely, for people thought that paintings at such a low price must
be inferior, and even those who could afford to buy them, would not.
The painter now tried the reverse experiment and raised the prices of
all his works, with much better success, for people reasoned--the
higher the price, the better the picture. But worst of all, through
the purely commercial motives governing those who undertake to supply
the people with works of art, the public taste is corrupted; little
or no attempt is made to educate the masses, but merely to give them
anything that will entertain them after a day of fatiguing
labor,--anything that will sell. The demoralizing effect of
commercialism upon artists themselves is too well known to require
more than a reminder; hasty work for the sake of money supplants careful
work for the sake of beauty; whole arts, like that of oriental rug
weaving, are thereby threatened with extinction; and, instead of
producing spontaneous art that would express themselves, people allow
themselves to be merely entertained by things supplied to them, nasty
and cheap--folk art disappears.

If, on the other hand, the commercial motive were eliminated, who can
say what might not result, in each community, from the experimentation
of men who could not make money but only honor and a living from the
profession of providing people with interesting ways of spending their
leisure. The increased efficiency of machine tool work will inevitably
make possible a great reduction in hours of labor, when the workers
themselves control industry for their own benefit rather than for that
of a class bent on still further increasing its own wealth and power.
It is entirely possible that the leisure of men will then absorb as
much of their devoted energies as work does now, and that they will
be educated for the one as well as for the other. It is not impossible
to hope that, the machine tool supplanting the slave, the commonwealth
of workers will develop as free and liberal a life as existed among
the citizens of ancient Greece. Then perhaps each group will have its
painters, actors, and musicians just as surely as it now has its judges,
aldermen, and police.

It is impossible to judge what art might do for people in a reorganized
society by what it does for them now. Art has its roots in interests
that are well nigh universal. Everybody loves to dance, to sing, to
tell a story; everybody loves either to paint or be painted, to
sculpture or be sculptured. Again, everybody is at least potentially
sensitive to rhythm, harmony, and balance, and to the beauties of
lines, colors, and tones. It is not native incapacity, but rather a
failure in aesthetic education due to the one-sided emphasis on work
rather than play, industry rather than leisure, success rather than
happiness, that is responsible for much of the seeming lack of artistic
appreciation among the masses. Under a different social system the
people may come to recognize the artist as a fellow-worker, elaborating
his products in exchange for other desirable things, and may accord
him welcome rather than envy.

However, it will doubtless always remain true that the subtler and
more intellectual types of art can never become popular. Like higher
mathematics, they will continue to be completely intelligible only to
the few. Yet I can conceive of no social system likely to grow out of
modern tendencies that would suppress them. The artist in the new state
would have his leisure, as other men would, in which he could devote
himself to the refinements of his art. It is doubtful whether he would
have less time for that then than he has now. How many artists under
our present system waste a large part of their lives doing hack work
of various kinds to make a living; only the fortunate few are masters
of themselves. Moreover, under any social system, men would be permitted
to spend their surplus income as they chose, and the art lovers of the
future are as likely to spend it for art then as now. Not being so
rich, they could not reward the artist so munificently as some are
rewarded now; but even now most working artists are poor, and the
impulse to art is independent of large rewards. Heretical and unpopular
artists, who could find no public backing, would come to be supported
by their own special clients, as they are to-day. In a complex rational
society, the principle of mutuality would be transitive rather than
strictly symmetrical--a woman would cook for a machine designer although
she got no machine in return, provided the designer made one, say, for
the shoemaker, who could thus supply her with shoes. Just so, there
is no moral objection to the artist's receiving goods and services
from people to whose life he contributes nothing personally, so long
as these people are compensated by those whose life he does enrich.
In other words, part of the reward which the art lover would receive
for the work he performed would be paid, not to himself, but to the
artist--art would be voluntarily supported by those who appreciated
it. No complex social life could be maintained under the principle of
strict mutuality, and certainly no system that undertook to preserve
the variety and spontaneity of human interests. Only a complete
dead-level regimentation of human life in accordance with the average
desires of the masses, which is unlikely, would destroy the more
intellectual and subtle types of art, and, by the same token,
speculation and disinterested higher learning. The higher culture has
survived many revolutions; it will survive the next, when it comes.

CHAPTER XV

THE FUNCTION OF ART: ART AND RELIGION

The distinctive purpose of art, so we have argued throughout this
study, is culture, the enrichment of the spirit. But lovers of art
have always claimed for it more active and broader influences. To my
thinking, most of such claims, especially in our age, like similar
claims for religion, are greatly exaggerated. Passion, convention,
economic fact in the largest sense, practical intelligence, these are
the dominant forces swaying men, not beauty, not religion. Indeed, one
who would compare the influence of art upon life at the present time
with its influence upon primitive societies might infer the early
extinction of that influence altogether. For among primitive men the
influence of art is all-pervading. With them art is inseparable from
utility and communal activities, upon which it has an immediate
modifying or strengthening effect. The movement of civilization, with
the exception of the Greek, mediaval, and renaissance city states, has
involved a breaking away from this original unity until, among
ourselves, art is developed and enjoyed in isolation from the rest of
life. Art is valued for its own sake, for its contribution to culture,
not for any further influence upon life, and this freedom has come to
be part of its very meaning. Instead of being interested only in
pictures and statues representing ourselves, our rulers, our gods, or
our neighborhood, we enjoy imitations of people who have had no effect
upon our lives whatever and scenes which we have never visited, and
we repair to museums to see them; instead of employing music to beautify
our daily life, we leave that life for the concert hall, where we shut
ourselves away for a few hours of "absolute" musical experience. Prose
literature and the drama, when inspired by contemporary social problems,
offer exceptions to this isolation, for through their ability to express
ideas they can exert a more pervasive influence. Although social
problems are solved in obedience to forces and demands beyond the
control of artists, literary expression is effective in persuading and
drawing into a movement men whose status would tend to make them hostile
or indifferent, as in Russia, where numerous men and women of the
aristocratic and wealthy classes became revolutionaries by reason of
literature. And yet the literary arts also have acquired a large measure
of isolation and independence. A play representing Viennese life is
appreciated in New York, a novel of contemporary manners in England
is enjoyed in America. Literature does not depend for its interest
upon its ability to interpret and influence the life that the reader
himself lives; he values it more because it extends than because it
reflects that life. People decry art for art's sake, but in vain.

The development of the relation of religion to life has been parallel
to the development of art. Originally, religion penetrated every
activity; now, by contrast, it has been removed from one after another
of the major human pursuits. Agriculture, formerly undertaken under
the guidance of religion; science, once the prerogative of the
priesthood; art, at one time inseparable from worship; politics, once
governed by the church and pretending a divine sanction; war, until
yesterday waged with the fancied cooperation of the gods--even these
are now under complete secular control. To be sure, there is some
music, sculpture, painting, and poetry still in the service of religion,
but its relative proportion is small; kings and congresses still appeal
for divine aid in times of crisis, but that is perfunctory; men still
pray for rain during drought, but without faith. No one would pretend
that our commerce and manufacturing have any direct relation to
religion. People still invoke divine authority for moral prescriptions,
but the sanctions actually operating are social instincts and fear of
public opinion and the law. Religion retains a direct and potent
influence only in the institution of marriage, the experience of death,
philosophy, and the social life and charities conducted by the churches.
Yet even in these spheres the influence is declining, and, so far as
it persists, is becoming indirect. Civil and contractual marriage are
slowly supplanting religious marriage; there are thousands living in
our large cities who do not feel the need of the church to establish
and cement their social life; most philosophers disclaim any religious
motive or authority for their investigations or beliefs. Only over
death does religion still hold undisputed sway.

However, despite the separation of religion and art from life, they
may continue to exert influence upon it. But, barring some new
integration of the sundered elements of our culture, which we may
deeply desire but cannot predict, this influence must be indirect and
subtle, and must occur independent of any institutional control. In
the case of both it consists in imparting to life a new meaning and
perfection, thus making possible a more complete affirmation of life
and a freer and more genial attitude and conduct.

For unless the spirit of art or of religion is infused into life, we
never find it quite satisfactory. To be sure, men sometimes think they
find perfection in certain things--in practical or moral endeavor, in
love or in pleasure; but unless art or religion is mixed into them,
they always prove to be, in the end, disappointing. No practical purpose
is ever quite successful; there is always some part of the plan left
unaccomplished; and the success itself is only momentary, for time
eventually engulfs it and forgets it. Practical life does not produce
any permanent and complete work; its task is done only to be done over
again; every house has to be repaired or torn down, every road rebuilt;
every invention is displaced by a new one. This is true even on the
higher planes of practical life, in political and social reconstruction.
Certain evils may be removed, certain abuses remedied, but new ones
always arise to take their places; and even when the entire system is
remodeled and men think that the day of freedom and justice has dawned
at last, they find, after a generation, a new tyranny and a new
injustice. The movement of life makes it impossible for any plan to
long endure. Hence the disillusion, the feeling of futility that so
often poisons the triumphs of practical men. And without the spirit
of art or of religion even love does not satisfy. For imagination
creates the perfection of its object and, aside from institutional
bonds fast loosening, a faith in the continued growth with one another
and with a child, which is essentially religious, creates the permanence
and meaning of its bond. Love's raptures, in so far as they are
instinctive, are, of course, independent of any view of life; but apart
from imagination and faith in one another, love does not keep its
quality or renew itself in memory, nor can it survive death which
always impends to destroy. Men often seek escape from the feeling of
imperfection in frivolity, but ennui is the inevitable consequence,
and reflection with its doubts cannot be stilled.

By contrast, in the religious experience and in beauty men feel that
they find perfection; hence the attitude of self-surrender and
joyousness characterizing both. The abandon of the spectator who decrees
that for the moment his life shall be that of the work of art, is
matched in the mystical experience by the emotion expressed in Dante's
line, "In his will is our peace." And in both the self-surrender is
based on a felt harmony between the individual and the object--the
beautiful thing appeals to the senses, its form is adapted to the
structure of the mind, its content is such as to win interest and
sympathy; the divine is believed to realize and quiet all of our
desires. But while in beauty we feel ourselves at home with the single
object, in religion we feel at rest in the universe.

When religion and art are separated from the other parts of life, as
they are fast becoming now, the peculiar quality of the experiences
which they offer can be rendered universal only by freely infusing it
everywhere, through faith, in the case of the one, through imaginative
re-creation, in the case of the other. The religious experience is a
seeming revelation of a perfect meaning in life as a whole; this meaning
must now be imparted to the details of life. By a free act of faith
the scattered and imperfect fragments must be built into a purposive
unity. The poisonous feeling of futility, will then be lost; each task,
no matter how petty or ineffectual, will become momentous as
contributing something toward the realization of a good beyond our
little existence; and we, however lowly, will find ourselves sublime
as instruments of destiny. There is nothing vain to him who believes.
And if the believer cannot build a meaning into history and social
life as he knows them empirically, he may extend them by faith in a
future life, through which his purposes will be given the promise of
eternity and the tie between parents and children, friends and lovers
and co-workers, an invincible seriousness and worth. Being at peace
with the universe, he may be reconciled to the accidents of his life
as expressions of its Will.

The method of reconciliation through religion can well be understood
by its effect on the attitude towards evil. To one who has faith in
the world as perfect, evil becomes an illusion that would disappear
to an adequate vision of the Divine. The supposedly evil thing becomes
really a good thing--a necessary means to the fulfillment of the divine
plan, either in the earthly progress of humanity or in the future life;
or if the more mystical types of religion provide the starting point,
where individuality itself is felt to be an illusion, a factor in the
self-realization of the Absolute. The evil thing remains, of course,
what it was, but the interpretation, and therefore the attitude towards
it, is transformed. Pain, sorrow, and misfortune become agents for the
quickening of the spirit, death a door opening to unending vistas.

The attitude of faith is not embodied in dogmatic and speculative
religious doctrines alone; for it finds expression in other beliefs--in
progress, in the possibility of a sunny social order, in the perpetuity
of human culture, in the peculiar mission of one's race or country.
Such beliefs are expressions primarily of faith, not of knowledge;
like religion, they are interpretations of life based on aspiration,
not on evidence; and through them men secure the same sort of
re-enforcement of motive, courage, and consolation that they derive
from the doctrines called religious. But the sphere of faith is wider
even than this; the almost instinctive belief that each man has in his
own longevity and success, the trust in the permanence of friendship
and love, the confidence in the unique value of one's work or
genius--these are also convictions founded more on desire than on
knowledge, and may function in the same way as religion in a man's
life.

The re-affirmation of life which art may inspire is independent of any
belief or faith about the world. It occurs rather through the
application to the objects and incidents of life of a spirit and
attitude borrowed from artistic creation and appreciation. It is a
generalization of the aesthetic point of view to cover life as well
as art; an attempt to bring beauty from art into the whole of life.
Although to-day works of art themselves are severed from direct contact
with the rest of life, something of the intention and method of the
artist may linger and be carried over into it. Art, the image of life,
may now serve as a model, after which the latter, in its turn, will
be patterned.

The spirit of art has two forms, one constructive, the other
contemplative, and both may be infused into life. When the former is
put there, each act and task is performed as if it were a work of art.
This involves "throwing the whole self" into it, not only thought and
patience, but enthusiasm and loving finish, even as the artist puts
them into his work, so that it becomes a happy self-expression. Nothing
shall interfere with or mar it, or spoil its value when recalled. The
imperfection and transiency of the result are then forgotten in the
inspiration of endeavor; and the work or act, no matter how
insignificant, becomes perfect as an experience and as a memory. The
generations may judge it as they will, but as an expression of the
energies of my own soul, it is divine. Of course, from the industry
of our time, where most work is mechanical and meaningless to him who
performs it, the spirit of art has largely fled. Yet there still remain
tasks which we all have to execute, if not in business, then at home,
which, by arousing our interest and invention, may become materials
for the spirit of art. We have at least our homes, our pleasures, our
relations with one another, our private adventures, where we can still
be free and genial and masterly. And for our work, art will continue
to be an ideal, sorrowfully appealing.

The scope of the spirit of art may be extended beyond the single task
or act to embrace the whole of one's life. Impulse offers a plastic
material to which form may be given. The principles of harmony, balance,
evolution, proper subordination, and perfection of detail, indispensable
to beauty in art, are conditions of happiness in life. The form of a
work of art and the form of a happy life are the same, as Plato
insisted. [Footnote: See, for example, _The Gorgias_, 503, 504.]
In order to yield satisfaction, the different parts of life must
exemplify identity of motive, continuity and orderliness in the
fulfillment of purpose, lucidity of relation, yet diversity for
stimulation and totality. There must be a selective scheme to absorb
what is congenial and reject the unfit. This sense for form in life
may lead to the same results as morality, but the point of departure
and the sanction are different. Morality is largely based on conformity,
on submission to the general will, and is rendered effective by fear
of public disapproval and supernatural taboos; while the aesthetic
direction of life has its roots in the love of form and meaning, and
its sanction in personal happiness. Moreover, to the reflective person,
looking before and after, life has the same sort of reality as a story,
and is bound to be judged in some measure like a story. The past and
the future live only in the imagination, and when we survey them there
they may please us with their interest, liveliness, and meaning, much
as a work of art would, or displease us with their vanity and chaos.
In this way personality may acquire an imaginative value fundamentally
aesthetic. This is different from moral value, which has reference to
the relation of a life to social ideals; it is more comprehensive than
the religious judgment, which is interested only in saving the soul;
because it includes every element of life,--sense, imagination, and
achievement, welcoming all, so long as they contribute something to
a significant, moving whole.

The feeling for perfection of form and imaginative meaning in life is
no invention of philosophers and aesthetes, but part of the normal
reaction to conduct. Everybody feels that certain acts, or even certain
wishes, are to be rejected by himself, not because they are
intrinsically bad or wrong, but because they are inconsistent with his
particular nature, and, on the other hand, that there are certain
interests that should be cultivated, not because they are universally
right or good, but because they are needed to give his life complete
meaning. And again, all except the meanest and most repressed souls
desire somewhat to shine, if not in the world at large, at least among
their friends, and act with a view to appearance and to some total
survey of their lives that would consider not merely its goodness or
usefulness, but its imaginative emotional appeal. This appeal is the
strongest on the death of a great man; this lives longest in the memory.
The love of the romantic and adventurous is partly instinctive, but
largely imaginative, for it has in view not merely the rapturous
pleasures of the hazardous moment, but the remembered delights of
recall and expression to others. The love of glory is also imaginative,
a feeling for the dramatic extending even beyond the grave. The
ambitious man seeks to make a story out of his life for posterity to
read and remember, just as the artist makes one out of fictitious
material. More might develop out of this love of form and drama in
life. We have it to a certain degree of cultivation in picturesque and
refined manners, dress, and ceremonial, but even there it is hampered
through conventionality and want of invention; further evolved and
extended into the deeper strata of life, it would lead to a more
interesting and productive existence. Surely, if God is an artist as
well as a judge, he will welcome into heaven not only those who have
lived well, but also those who have lived beautifully.

There is no necessity, finally, why the constructive spirit of art
should be confined to the personal life and should not, in some measure
at least, penetrate the community and even the state. By appealing to
imaginative feeling, the activities of various individuals and groups,
when coordinated and given a purposeful unity, produce an aesthetic
effect. The organization of a business or a university may easily come
to have such a value for one who has helped to create it, especially
if the place where the communal spirit operates is beautiful,--the
office, the campus, the shop. Seldom, to be sure, do we find this value
in our busy and haphazard America, but in many quarters the intention
to create it is awake. As for the state, it is, of course, too little
dominated by disinterested intelligence to be beautiful; yet Plato's
ideal of statecraft as a fine art still rules the innermost dream of
men.

The contemplative spirit of art is perhaps more important than the
constructive in its application to life. Not that any sharp line can
be drawn between them, for contemplation must always attend or follow
creation, to judge and enjoy; yet towards that part of life which we
cannot control, our attitude must be rather that of the spectator than
the creator. We cannot interfere with the greater part of life; we
can, however, observe it and, in the imagination, transform it, where
we can then envisage it as we should a work of art. As we watch it,
life itself may become beautiful, and instead of giving ourselves to
it half-heartedly and with reserve, we shall accept it with something
of the abandon of passionate love,--"In thee my soul hath her content
so absolute." To this end it is necessary to detach life from our more
selfish interests and ambitions, from the habits of thought, annoying
and preoccupying, that relate to self alone. To the worldly and self-
centered, life is interesting only so far as it refers to pride or
ambition or passion; otherwise it is indifferent, as none of their
concern. But to the religious and to the aesthetically minded, there
is no part of life that may not be of interest; to the former, because
they impute something of transcendent perfection to it all; to the
latter, because they have set themselves the inexhaustible task of its
free, imaginative appreciation.

To this end, it is also necessary, after learning to view life
objectively and impersonally, to attend to it leisurely and
responsively, as we should to a work of art, allowing full scope to
the disinterested feelings of curiosity, pity, sympathy, and wonder
to create emotional participation.

Then the world may become for us the most magnificent spectacle of
all. To imaginative feeling, every landscape is a potential painting,
every life-story a romance, history a drama, every man or woman a
statue or portrait. Beauty is everywhere, where we who are perhaps not
artists but only art lovers can find it; we cannot embody it in enduring
form or throw over it the glamour of sensuous loveliness, but we can
perceive it with that free appreciation that is the essence of art.
And for this, of course, the artists have prepared us; it is they who,
by first exhibiting life as beautiful in art, have shown us that it
may be beautiful as mirrored in the observing mind. One region after
another has been conquered by them. The poets and the painters created
the beauty of the mountains, of windmills and canals, of frozen wastes
and monotonous prairies, of peasants and factories and railway stations
and slums. Themselves the first to feel the value of these things,
through some personal attachment or communion with them, they have
made it universal through expression. Their works have become types
through which we apperceive and appreciate the world: we see French
landscapes as Lorrain and Corot saw them, peasants after the fashion
of Millet, the stage after Degas. In vain men have prophesied limits
to the victorious advance of art. Just at the time when, in the middle
of the last century, some men feared that science and industry had
banished beauty from the world, the impressionists and realists
disclosed it in factory and steamboat and mine. In this way modern
art, which might seem through its isolation to have taken beauty away
from the world to itself, has given it back again.

The spirit of art, no less than of religion, can help us to triumph
over the evils of life. There are three ways of treating evil
successfully: the practical way, to overcome it and destroy it; the
religious way, by faith to deny its existence; the aesthetic way, to
rebuild it in the imagination. The first is the way of all strong men;
but its scope is limited; for some of the evils of life are insuperable;
against these our only recourse is faith or the spirit of art. The
method of art consists in taking towards life itself the same attitude
that the artist takes towards his materials when he makes a comedy or
a tragedy out of them; life itself becomes the object of laughter or
of tragic pity and fear and admiration. As we observed in our chapter
on "The Problem of Evil in Aesthetics," laughter is an essentially
aesthetic attitude, for it implies the ability disinterestedly to face
a situation, although one which opposes our standards and expectations,
and to take pleasure in it. All sorts of personal feelings may be mixed
with laughter, bitterness and scorn and anger; but the fact that we
laugh shows that they are not dominant; in laughter we assert our
freedom from the yoke of circumstance and make it yield us pleasure
even when it thwarts us. Laughter celebrates a twofold victory, first
over ourselves, in that we do not allow our disappointments to spoil
our serenity, and second over the world, in that, even when it threatens
to render us unhappy, we prevent it. Fate may rob us of everything,
but not of freedom of spirit and laughter; oftentimes we must either
laugh or cry, but tears bring only relief, laughter brings merriment
as well.

Even with the devil laughter may effect reconciliation. Practical men
will try to destroy him, but so far they have not succeeded; men of
faith will prophesy his eventual ruin, but meanwhile we have to live
in his company; and how can we live there at peace with ourselves
unless with laughter at his antics and our own vain efforts to restrain
them? Surely the age-long struggle against him justifies us in making
this compromise for our happiness. We who in our lifetime cannot defeat
him can at least make him yield us this meed of laughter for our pains.
People who think that laughter at evil is a blasphemy against the good
set too high a valuation upon their conventions. No one can laugh
without possessing a standard, but to laugh is to recognize that life
is of more worth than any ideal and happiness better than any morality.

And if by laughter we cannot triumph over evil, we may perhaps achieve
this end by appreciating it as an element in tragedy or pathos. For
once we take a contemplative attitude towards life, foregoing praise
and blame, there is no spectacle equal to it for tragic pity and fear
and admiration. There is a heroism in life equal to any in art, in
which we may live imaginatively, and in so living forgive the evil
that is its necessary condition. Or, when life is pathetic rather than
tragic, suffering and fading and weak rather than strong and steady
and resisting, we may win insight from the pitiable reality into the
possible and ideal; the shadow of evil will suggest to us the light
of the good, and for this vision we shall bless life even when it
disappoints our hopes. The very precariousness of values, which is an
inevitable accompaniment of them, will serve to intensify their worth
for us; we shall be made the more passionately to love life, with the
joys that it offers us, because we so desperately realize its
transiency. Our knowledge of the inescapableness of death and failure
will quiet our laments, leaving us at least serene and resigned where
our struggles and protests would be unavailing. It is by thus
generalizing the point of view of art so that we adopt it towards our
own life that we secure the catharsis of tragedy. Instead of letting
sorrow overwhelm us, we may win self-possession through the struggle
against it; instead of feeling that there is nothing left when the
loved one dies, we may keep in memory a cherished image, more poignant
and beautiful because the reality is gone, and loving this we shall
love life also that has provided it.

Finally, in subtle ways, the influence of art, while remaining indirect,
may affect practical action in a more concrete fashion. For silently,
unobtrusively, when constantly attended to, a work of art will transform
the background of values out of which action springs. The beliefs and
sentiments expressed will be accepted not for the moment only,
aesthetically and playfully, but for always and practically; they will
become a part of our nature. The effect is not merely to enlarge the
scope of our sympathies by making us responsive, as all art does, to
every human aspiration, but rather to strengthen into resolves those
aspirations that meet in us an answering need. This influence is
especially potent during the early years of life, before the framework
of valuations has become fixed. What young man nursed on Shelley's
poetry has not become a lover of freedom and an active force against
all oppression? But even in maturer years art may work in this way.
One cannot live constantly with the "Hermes" of Praxiteles without
something of its serenity entering into one's soul to purge passion
of violence, or with Goethe's poetry without its wisdom making one
wise to live. The effect is not to cause any particular act, but so
to mold the mind that every act performed is different because of this
influence.

I would compare this influence to that of friends. Friends may, of
course, influence conduct directly and immediately through advice and
persuasion, but that is not the most important effect of their lives.
More important is the gradual diffusion of their attitudes and the
enlightenment following their example. Through living their experiences
with them, we come to adopt their valuations as our own; by observing
how they solve their problems, we get suggestions as to how to solve
ours. Art provides us with a companionship of the imagination, a new
friendship. The sympathetic touch with the life there expressed enlarges
our understanding of the problems and conditions of all life, and so
leads to a freer and wiser direction of our own. On the one hand new
and adventurous methods of living are suggested, and on the other hand
the eternal limits of action are enforced.

Once more I would compare the influence of art with that of religion.
The effect of religion upon conduct is partly due to the institutions
with which it is connected and the supernatural sanctions which it
attaches to the performance of duty; but partly also, and more
enduringly, to the stories of the gods. Now these stories, even when
believed, have an existence in the imagination precisely comparable
to that of works of art, and their influence upon sentiment is of
exactly the same order. They are most effective when beautiful, as the
legends of Christ and Buddha are beautiful; and they function by the
sympathetic transference of attitude from the story to the believer.
Even when no longer accepted as true their influence may persist, for
the values they embody lose none of their compulsion. And, although
as an interpretation of life based upon faith religion is doubtless
eternal, its specific forms are probably all fictitious; hence each
particular religion is destined to pass from the sphere of faith to
that of art. The Greek religion has long since gone there, and there
also a large part of our own will some day go--what is lost for faith
is retained for beauty.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

General Works

_English._

SANTAYANA, G. The Sense of Beauty, 1897; Reason in Art, 1906.
MUENSTERBERG, H. The Principles of Art Education, 1905; The
 Eternal Values, Part 3, 1909.
LEE and THOMPSON. Beauty and Ugliness, 1911.
CARRITT, E. I. The Theory of Beauty, 1914.
KNIGHT, WM. The Philosophy of the Beautiful, Part 1, 1891;
 Part 2, 1893.
PUFFER, ETHEL. The Psychology of Beauty, 1905.
BROWN, BALDWIN. The Fine Arts, 1892.
ROWLAND, E. The Significance of Art, 1913.
MARSHALL, R. Pain, Pleasure, and Aesthetics, 1894; Aesthetic
 Principles, 1895.
SULLY, J., and ROBERTSON, G. C. Aesthetics.
BOSANQUET, B. History of Aesthetics, 1904; Three Lectures on
 Aesthetics, 1914.
GORDON, KATE. Aesthetics, 1909.

_German._

LIPPS, T. Aesthetik, 1903-1905.
VOLKELT, J. System der Aesthetik, 1905-1914.
DESSOIR, M. Aesthetik und Allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft, 1906.
COHN, J. Allgemeine Aesthetik, 1901.
MEUMANN, E. Aesthetik der Gegenwart, 1912; System der
 Aesthetik, 1914.
UTITZ, E. Grundlegung der Allgemeinen Kunstwissenschaft, Bd. 1,
 1914.
MUELLER-FRIENFELS, R. Psychologic der Kunst, 1912.
WITASEK, S. Grundzuege der Allgemeinen Aesthetik, 1904.
GROOS, K. Der Aesthetische Genuss, 1902.
LANGE, K. Das Wesen der Kunst, 1901.
FIEDLER, C. Der Ursprung der Kuenstlerischen Thaetigkeit, 1901.
KANT, I. Kritik der Urteilskraft, 1790; English translation by
 J. H. Bernard, 1892.

_French._

TAINE, H. The Philosophy of Art, English translation, 1867.
SULLY-PRUDHOMME, R. F. A. L'Expression dans les beaux arts, 1883.
GUYAU, J. M. Les problemes de l'estetique contemporaine, 1884;
 L'Art au point de vue sociologique, 1889.
BRAY, L. Du Beau, 1902.
SEAILLES, G. Essai sur le genie en l'art, 1897.
SOURIAU, P. La suggestion en l'art, 1909.
LALO, CH. Les Sentiments esthetiques, 1910; Introduction
 l'estetique, 1913.
DUSSAUZE, H. Les Regies estetiques et les lois du sentiment, 1911.
FONTAINE, A. Essai sur le principe et les lois de la critique d'art,
 1909.

_Italian._

CROCE, B. Estetica, 1902; English translation, 1909; French
 translation, 1904; German translation, 1905; Breviario di
 estetica, 1913.
PILO, M. Estetica.
PORENA, M. Che cos' e il bello? 1905.

EXPERIMENTAL AESTHETICS

FECHNER, G. T. Vorschule der Aesthetik, 1876.
KUELPE, O. Der gegenwaertige Stand der experimentellen Aesthetik,
 in Bericht ueber den 2ten Kongress fuer experimentelle
 Psychologie, 1907.
STRATTON, G. M. Psychology and Culture, 1903.
VALENTINE, C. W. Experimental Psychology of Beauty.
MYERS, C. S. Introduction to Experimental Psychology, 1911.
WUNDT, WM. Physiological Psychology.
LALO, CH. L'Estetique experimentale contemporaine, 1908.

Works on the Origins of Art

HIRN, Y. The Origins of Art, 1900.
GROSSE, E. The Beginnings of Art, English translation, 1897.
WALLASCHEK, R. Primitive Music, 1903.
BUECHER, K. Arbeit und Rhythmus, 1899.
GUMMEBE, F. B. The Beginnings of Poetry, 1901.
GROOS, K. The Play of Man, 1901.
FRAZER, J. G. The Golden Bough, 1907-1915.
WUNDT, WM. Volkerpsychologie, 1911; Elements of Folk Psychology,
 1916.
SPEARING, H. G. The Childhood of Art, 1913.

Additional References for Special Subjects

_Chapter Six.--The Tragic._

ARISTOTLE. Poetics.
CORNEILLE, P. Discours de la tragedie, 1660.
LESSING, G. E. Hamburgische Dramaturgic, 1767.
SCHOPENHAUER. The World as Will and Idea; English translation,
 Vol. 1, Bk. 3; Vol. 3, Ch. 27.
HEGEL, G. W. F, Vorlesungen ueber die Aesthetik, 3ter Abschnitt,
 3tes Kapitel.
HEBBEL, F. Ein Wort ueber das Drama, 1843.
LIPPS, T. Der Streit ueber die Tragoedie, 1891.
VOLKELT, J. Aesthetik des Tragischen, 1906; System der Aesthetik,
 Bd. 2, 1910.
BRADLEY, A. C. Oxford Lectures on Poetry, 1909.
BUTCHER, S. H. Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, 1898.
NIETZSCHE, FR. Die Geburt der Tragoedie, 1870.

_Chapter Six.--The Comic._

LIPPS, T. Komik und Humor, 1898.
BERGSON, H. Laughter, English translation, 1913.
FREUD, S. Wit, and Its Relation to the Unconscious, English
 translation, 1916.
MARTIN, L. J. Experimental Prospecting in the Fields of the
 Comic, _American Journal of Psychology_, Vol. 16, 1905.
SCHOPENHAUER, A. The World as Will and Idea, English translation,
 Vol. 2, Ch. 8.
VOLKELT, J. System der Aesthetik, Bd. 2, 1900.
SULLY, J. Essay on Laughter, 1902.
SPENCER, H. Physiology of Laughter, in _Essays, Scientific,
 Political and Speculative_. SIDIS, B. Psychology of Laughter, 1913.
MEREDITH, GEORGE. An Essay on Comedy, 1897.

_Chapter Seven.--The Standard of Taste._

TAINE, H. The Ideal in Art, 1867.
LEMAITRE, J. Les Contemporains.
FRANCE, A. La Vie litteraire.
BRUNETIERE, FERD. Questions de critique, 1889.
BABBITT, IRVING. The New Laocoon, 1910.
GATES, L. E. Impressionism and Appreciation, in _The Atlantic
 Monthly_, July, 1900.
BALFOUR, A. J. Criticism and Beauty, 1910.
PATER, WALTER. The Renaissance, 1873.
SYMONDS, J. A. Essays, Speculative and Suggestive, 1890.
CAINE, T. HALL. Cobwebs of Criticism, 1883.
HENNEQUIN, E. La Critique scientifique, 1888.
SPINGARN, J. E. Creative Criticism, 1917.

_Chapter Eight.--Music._

RIEMANN, H. Elemente der musikalischen Aesthetik, 1900.
HANSLICK, E. Vom Musikalisch-Schoenen, 11th ed., 1910.
GEHRING, A. The Basis of Musical Pleasure, 1910.
COMBARIEU, J. Music: Its Laws and Evolution, 1910.
GURNEY, E. The Power of Sound, 1880.
BUSONI, F. Sketch of a New Athetic of Music, 1911.
LALO, C. Esquisse d'une estetique musicale scientifique, 1908.
AMBROS, W. A. Die Grenzen der Musik und Poesie, 1872.
WAGNER, R. Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft; Oper und Drama.
STUMPF, C. Tonpsychologie, 1883, 1890, and articles in _Zeitschrift
 fuer Psychologie._
HELMHOLTZ. Sensations of tone, 1895.
MEYER, MAX. Contributions to a Psychological Theory of Music,
 _University of Missouri Studies_, 1901,1. No. 1;
 The Psychology of Music, in _American Journal of
 Psychology_, 1903: 14.
BINGHAM, W. VAN DYKE. Studies in Melody, 1910.
LIPPS. Zur Theorie der Melodie, in _Zeitschrift fuer
 Psychologie_, 1902:27.
REVESZ, GEZA. Tonpsychologie, 1913.
SPENCER, H. The Origin and Function of Music.
BOLTON. Rhythm, in _American Journal of Psychology_, Vol. 6.
MEUMANN, E. Untersuchungen zur Psy. u. Aest. d. Rhythmus,
 in _Philosophische Studien_, X.
STETSON, R. H. A Motor Theory of Rhythm and Discrete Succession,
 in _Psychological Review_, Vol. 12.

_Chapter Nine_.--_Poetry_.

ARISTOTLE. Poetics.
SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. Defense of Poesy, 1581.
WORDSWORTH, WM. Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, 1800.
SHELLEY, P. B. A Defense of Poetry, 1821.
BRADLEY, A. C. Oxford Lectures on Poetry, 1909.
SCOTT, F. N. The Most Fundamental Differentia of Poetry and
 Prose, _Modern Language Association Publications_, V. 19, pp. 250-269,
MILL, J. S. Thoughts on Poetry and Its Varieties, in _Dissertations
 and Discussions_, Vol. 1.
SANTAYANA, G. Elements of Poetry, in _Poetry and Religion_, 1900.
LANIER, S. Science of English Verse, 1880.
EASTMAN, MAX. The Enjoyment of Poetry.
SOURIAU, P. La Reverie esthetique, 1906.
LIDDELL, MARK H. An Introduction to the Study of Poetry, 1902.
WERNER, R. M. Lyrik und Lyriker, 1890.
LOWELL, AMY. Tendencies in Modern American Poetry, 1917.
GUMMERE, F. B. A Handbook of Poetics, 1895.
ROETTEKEN. Poetik, 1911.
BURKE, EDMUND. A Philosophical Enquiry into Our Ideas of the
 Sublime and Beautiful, Part 4, 1756.
MACKAIL, J. W. Lectures on Poetry, 1911.
POE, E. A. The Philosophy of Composition; The Poetic Principle.
OMOND, T. S. A Study of Meter, 1903.
VERRIER, P. Metrique anglaise, 1909.
DILTHEY, W. Das Erlebnis und Die Dichtung, 1907.
STETSON, R. H. Rhythm and Rhyme, in _Harvard Psychological Studies_,
 Vol. 1.

_Chapter Ten.--Prose Literature._

SCHOPENHAUER, A. The Art of Literature.
GOETHE AND SCHILLER. Correspondence, passim.
GREEN, T. H. The Value and Influence of Works of Fiction, 1862.
LEWES, G. H. Principles of Success in Literature, 1892.
ARNOLD, M. Essays in Criticism, 1869.
ZOLA, E. The Experimental Novel and Other Essays, translated by
 B. M. Sherman, 1893.
BESANT, W., and JAMES, H. The Art of Fiction, 1885.
PATER, W. Appreciations, with an Essay on Style, 1889.
STEVENSON, R. L. On Style in Literature, in _Contemporary
 Review_, 47:548.
BOURGET, P. Etudes et Portraits, 1911.
FLAUBERT, G. Correspondance, published 1887.
ELSTER, E. Prinzipien der Literaturwissenschaft, 1897, 1911.
FREITAG, G. Technique of the Drama, English translation, 1895.
MATTHEWS, J. B. A Study of the Drama, 1910.
JONES, H. A. The Foundations of a National Drama, 1913.
WOODBRIDGE, E. The Drama: Its Laws and Its Technique, 1898.
DE MAUPASSANT, GUY. Le Roman, in Pierre et Jean.

For additional references on Poetry and Prose, consult _An
Introduction to the Methods and Materials of Literary Criticism_,
by C. M. Gayley and F. N. Scott, 1899.

_Chapter Eleven.--Painting._

MEIER-GRAEFE, J. Modern Art, English translation, 1908.
ROSS, DENMON. A Theory of Pure Design, 1907; On Drawing and
 Painting, 1912.
BERENSON, B. Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance.
POORE, H. R. Pictorial Composition, 1903.
VAN DYKE, J. C. Art for Art's Sake, 1895.
UTITZ, E. Grundzuege der Aesthetischen Farbenlehre, 1908.
WAETZOLDT, WM. Die Kunst des Portraets, 1908.
WEIGHT, WM. H. Modern Painting, 1915.
LIPPS, T. Aesthetik, Bd. 1, 5ter Abschnitt, Bd. 2, 7tes Kapitel.
GOETHE. Farbenlehre.
SOURIATJ, P. L'Estetique du mouvement, 1889.
STRATTON, G. M. Eye Movement, and the Aesthetics of Visual
 Form, in Philosophische Studien, XX.
COHN, J. Experimented Untersuchungen ueber die Gefuehls-betonung
 der Farben, in Philosophische Studien, 10: 522.
BAKER and CHOWN. Experiments on Color, in the University of
 Toronto Studies.
LEE and THOMPSON. Beauty and Ugliness, in Contemporary Review, 1897.
CHEVREUL, M. E. The Principles of Harmony and Contrast of Colors, 1855.

_Chapter Twelve.--Sculpture._

HILDEBRAND, A. The Problem of Form in Painting and Sculpture,
 English translation, 1907.
RODIN, A. Art, English translation, 1912.
HERDER, J. G. Plastik, 1778.
LIPPS, T. Aesthetik, Bd. 2, 5tes u. etes Kapitel.
LESSING. Laocoon, 1766.
CORNELIUS, H. Elementargesetze der bildenden Kunst, 1908.

_Chapter Thirteen.--Architecture._

LIPPS, T. Raumaesthetik, 1897; Aesthetik, Bd. 1, 1903.
SCOTT, G. The Architecture of Humanism, 1914.
ROBINSON, J. B. Architectural Composition, 1908.
VAN PELT, J. V. Essentials of Composition, 1913.
GUADET, J. Elements et theorie de l'architecture, 1909.
VIOLLET-LE-DUC, E. E. Entretiens sur l'architecture, 1863-72.
RUSKIN, J. Seven Lamps of Architecture, 1857.
FRANKL, P. Die Entwicklungsphasen der neueren Baukunst, 1914.
WORRINGER, W. Formprobleme der Gothik, 1912.
WOELFFUN, H. Renaissance und Barock, 1888.

_Chapter Fourteen.--Art and Morality._

PLATO. Republic, Ion, Phaedrus, Symposium, Gorgias.
TOLSTOY, L. What is Art? English translation, 1899.
SCHILLER, F. Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man, 1793-1795.
MORRIS, WM. Hopes and Fears for Art, 1882.
WILDE, O., MORRIS, WM., and OWEN, W. C. The Soul of Man,
 The Socialist Ideal--Art, and The Coming Solidarity.
RUSKIN, J. Lectures on Art, 1900.
SYMONDS, J. A. Essays, Speculative and Suggestive, 1890.
PAULHAN, FR. Le Mensonge de l'Art, 1907.
WHISTLER, J. McN. Ten o'Clock, 1888.
GUYAU, J. M. L'Art au point de vue sociologique, 1889.
CASSAGNE, A. La theorie de l'art pour l'art en France, 1906.

_Chapter Fifteen.--Art and Religion._

LANG, A. Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 1913.
DELLA SETA, A. Religion and Art, 1914.
HARRISON, J. Ancient Art and Ritual, 1913.
MURRAY, G. Four Stages of Greek Religion, 1912.
REINACH, S. Orpheus, 1909.
SANTAYANA, G. Poetry and Religion, 1900.
FRAZER, J. G. The Golden Bough.
HEGEL, G. W. F. Introduction to the Philosophy of Fine Art,
 translated by Bosanquet, 1886.
MUENSTERBERG, H. Philosophie der Werte, 1908.
WUNDT, WM. Volkerpsychologie, 1911.
SANTAYANA, G. Three Philosophical Poets, 1910.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Principles Of Aesthetics, by Dewitt H. Parker