townspeople who seldom make excursions into the country, and then each time to a different place, who know a nightingale by night and a lark when they see it poised, who are only sure about the cuckoo's call and tell a violet by its colour: to such Spring hardly conveys a meaning. For them there is too much to be observed, too little to be comprehended, to make the landscape what it is to the poet who dwells in the midst of the panorama of change. That is to say, away from what is homely, the attention is wearied and stupefied instead of being easily occupied and gently stimulated. On the other hand, if we observe Spring in a tiny garden alone, it equally forfeits its right to be one of the wonders of the world. The one or two bushes, the one or two trees, the few square feet of turf, and the occasional chaffinch or robin that chances to alight, beautiful as they are in their way, do not yield massive delights. There is no breathing space for the attention, no incessant change on a large scale, no coherent drama, to be observed. What is Spring time in a large town? It scarcely suggests the infinite enjoyments of the country. The houses are scarcely affected, the roads only a little muddier, the rosy buds. turn dull, the leaves become dirty, the bark is uniformly coloured by the smoke, and as for larks and thrushes and nightingales, these, even if they came, would not be heard above the din of noise and the thick layers of dulled sound. Whichever way we posit our problem, our conclusions are still readily verified. The beautiful implies extensive variety and, therefore, a vast expanse. It identifies itself neither with what requires keen effort for appreciation nor with that which needs no effort. It unmistakably demands a gentle and sustained stimulus. It insists upon some kind of systematic arrangement. In the absence of order the attention wanders, for it cannot bear the strain involved in persistent readjustment. Spring, the inspirer of the poet and the select companion of the lover of nature, does not, then, owe its fame to fashion, custom, fancy or philosophy. It appeals to the eternal in us. It satisfies the attention mechanism, as food satisfies the digestive organs. Apart from an organism such as ours we have no conception of the beautiful.

We have analysed two examples designed to bring out in full the implications of the beautiful. We shall now descend to common facts. Look at the dust in the road on a summer's day, or the mud on a dull November afternoon. [Test this.] Why do we not admire them, as we do the sunset, the Spring, the sea or the stars? Plainly because they are powerless to convey much to us. The mud is a monotonous greybrown, which prevents the emergence of recognisable outlines. [Is this so?] There are no considerable variations observable. There is little for the attention to dwell upon. There is no interdependence between the different particles, the grasping of which should stimulate the nervous system. There is no appreciable change going on to relieve the monotony. We can only rivet the attention by repeated efforts. Hence we do not contemplate the mud, nor look upon it as a beautiful object. Yet give the moonlight free play on a mud bank left bare by the receding tide,

and, the conditions being altered, we are face to face with a brilliant exhibition. For this reason, all formless and uniform accumulations repel us, because they cannot hold the attention. The various aggregates produced by accident, such as the contents of a waste-paper basket, or the litter on a table, fall under this condemnation. The attention shoots off as it approaches them. In a moment it is satisfied; the next moment, it seeks fresh food. Seeming exceptions there are. Autumn's tinted leaves, as they garland-like border a lake, or snow-like cover the house-steps, are beautiful in spite of the absence of natural or artistic arrangements. The explanation is simple. The organic shadings in the single leaves constitute one attraction; another lies in the great variety produced by the immense assemblage of colour; and a third in the contrast between gay tints and decay. Pure heterogeneity repels, just as does pure homogeneity. Let us look at definite shapes. [Do so.] Here is a triangle ▲, and here is a square . May we regard them as possessing exquisite beauty? Shall we contemplate them rapturously? Clearly not. Though an organic connection exists there are few points, and the interdependence is so obvious that we detect it forthwith. Regular forms, such as a triangle, are pleasing; but the pleasure is evanescent, since it takes very little time to observe all that can be readily observed therein. Yet suppose that we look at a row of ten triangles, or even ten rows of a hundred of them, will these impose upon us? We are no doubt struck by the number; but we take no pleasure in the sight. In an instant we recognise the unity and the plan, and have done with it; we wonder, but hardly admire. Nothing lures us to prolonged contemplation. Of course, when angular forms are interconnected, and when they are represented in a design, then, the conditions being more favourable, we contemplate the result with more or less enjoyment. Accordingly, such patterns commend themselves to the simple taste. For ordinary purposes the momentary delight they give is all that is demanded.

The higher we aim, the less obvious do patterns become. At first, they are not elaborate; but later on, they are over-elaborated and come to be distasteful, since the attention shrinks from their complexity. At their best, a hidden order is sought by the artist, such as challenges the imagination without completely yielding up the secret. In such instances admiration knows practically no time limit. We take a perpetual delight in dwelling on the form, hunting for that which we feel to be there, but which ever eludes us. Those sets of outlines which seem to disclose, and yet do not disclose, their secret, are favourites of the attention. They are in direct contrast to the mechanical order observable in the paving stones of a street, or in primitive and monotonous wall papers. He who can produce forms which are easily but not completely grasped, has mounted more than one rung of the ladder of art. Curves are of this satisfactory and yet elusive type: they puzzle us and yet gratify us.

The best pictures are a good exemplification of our general contention. The presence of colours, their happy arrangement, the supple forms, the

organic connection of the whole-all these contribute to the creation of the intended effect. A "wooden" figure is one lacking in systematic detail and boldness. [Test.] A perfect figure is one where much is seen, and more is suggested [Test], and for this reason the few strokes of the caricaturist have their secret not in the quantitative or qualitative merit of the outlines, but in what these hint at. In other words, the presence of pertinent detail is a test of beauty, and accordingly an apparently simple good picture embodies much labour: the work is there, but does not obtrude itself. The life-like effect in inferior paintings, on the other hand, depends on the line written underneath or on the general arrangement. [Test] The faces tell nothing; they are dolls' faces. Covering up all but a face, we are at a loss whether it represents a boy or a girl, a man or a woman. The face of the lover, and the face of his beloved, equally lack expression. Fashion plates are also apt illustrations of this emptiness. Now, for a picture to tell us nothing, or to violate our notions of things, what is it but to lack organic detail and to repel the attention. If the uncultured classes admire bad pictures, it is on account of an obvious illusion of judgment. As a matter of fact, it is only for a very short time that they can study these cheap coloured prints, for, in themselves, they attract the ignorant man as little as the cultured. It is a good omen when copies of famous pictures figure in the households of the humble, and when advertisers prefer a homely face to the presentation of expressionless beauty.

The realm of the aesthetically indifferent, which has so large a placereserved to it in life's routine, finds, of course, its explanation in our principles. The grey pavement, the rows of brick houses lacking ornament, the dingy shops, owe their unattractiveness to the same source. Hence the difference between a room in a state of natural and one in a state of artistic confusion. Every object, in short, has its fixed æsthetic value, and, subject to what is said in the succeeding sections, yields the same gratification to all. De gustibus non disputandum only holds good when we confuse beauty with a number of things which have nothing to do with it, for as a strictly scientific assertion it is false. The middle ages might as well have argued that de scientiis non disputandum, because in those times science and error were boon-companions.

Kant (Kritik der Urtheilskraft, 1790, §7) goes to the extreme by insisting that there can be no difference of opinion as to what is beautiful. His arguments are contradicted by the fact of æsthetic development, and by observation generally. If it is easier to differ concerning the agreeable than the beautiful, it is because the attention mechanism is far more uniform in its reactions than is the palate or the fancy.

Cultivated grounds admirably bring out the truth of our position. Let us assume that when staying in the country, we traverse at short intervals an area of twenty-four square miles. We pass woods, meadows, streams, hills, fields and pastures. Our range is so large that it admits of an immense expanse of attractive detail. Further, the changes we witness are not designed by us, nor are they artificial or abrupt. Look now at a

garden. [Test this.] If there are beds of regular shapes, we condemn them as lacking sustained interest. If the arrangement of the flowers is artificial, it falls behind that of nature. The blossoms also lack ease and grace. The space being limited, gorgeous and rich forms abound. Nature's few petals become many; the delicate colours become pronounced. So cramped are the grounds that there is no freedom, no natural environment for these earth-chained inhabitants. Hence we lack the pleasure of seeing something unexpectedly, or of resting between sight and sight. There is an attempt to make a tenth of a square mile equal in beauty to twenty-four. The result is a miserable failure. No one but an invalid, physically or æsthetically, will seriously compare man's garden to nature's paradise. A garden-bred poet is a monstrosity. [Carefully study gardens and town parks.]

Thinking and observing are not effortless processes, and the greater the obstacles consequently, the more strained and concentrated the attention. There is a condition, speaking of outlines, when the attention is readily satisfied; and the objects in connection with which this happens are called beautiful. An all-powerful mind or brain would be unable to see any beauty, for the necessary degree of attention would be absent. So, on the other hand, children and savages, lacking as they do the power of quiet contemplation, are naturally unable, except within the narrowest compass, to appreciate what is beautiful. [Experiment.]

Ruskin supplies us with a fine example of what is revealed by a close intimacy with .nature. I give the passage in full: "A steep bank of loose earth of any kind, that has been at all exposed to the weather, contains in it, though it may not be three feet high, features capable of giving high gratification to a careful observer. It is almost a facsimile of a mountain slope of soft and decomposing rock; it possesses nearly as much variety of character, and is governed by laws of organisation no less rigid. It is furrowed in the first place by undulating lines, caused by the descent of the rain; little ravines, which are cut precisely at the same slope as those of the mountain, and leave ridges scarcely less graceful in their contour, and beautifully sharp in their chiselling. Where a harder knot of ground or a stone occurs, the earth is washed from beneath it, and accumulates above it, and there we have a little precipice connected by a sweeping curve at its summit with the great slope, and casting a sharp dark shadow; where the soil has been soft, it will probably be wasted away underneath until it gives way, and leaves a jagged, hanging, irregular line of fracture: and all these circumstances are explained to the eye in sunshine with the most delicious clearness; every touch of shadow being expressive of some particular truth of structure, and bearing witness to the symmetry into which the whole mass has been reduced. Where this operation has gone on long, and vegetation has assisted in softening the outlines, we have our ground brought into graceful and irregular curves, of infinite variety, but yet always so connected with each other, and guiding to each other, that the eye never feels them as separate things, nor feels inclined to count them, nor perceives a likeness in one to the other; they are not repetitions of each other, but are different parts of one system. Each would be imperfect without the next to it" (Modern Painters, 1873, pp. 309-10). This passage, quoted by Bosanquet, is supposed to "illustrate the beauty of characteristic expression" (A History of Æsthetic, 1892, p. 449); and if this be so, the reader has here Dr. Bosanquet's view in a nutshell.

In another passage, speaking of the sublime in architecture, Ruskin says: "It is a noble thing to make the face of a wall look infinite, and its edge against the sky

like an horizon or even if less than this be reached, it is still delightful to mark the play of passing light on its broad surface, and to see by how many artifices and gradations of tinting and shadow, time and storm will set their wild signature upon it; and how in the rising or declining of the day the unbroken twilight rests long and luridly on its high lineless forehead, and fades away untraceably down its tiers of confused and countless stone" (Seven Lamps of Architecture, 1897, pp. 140-1).

The organic view of the beautiful which is here put forward is illustrated by facts which are in part only identical with those dealt with in Esthetics. Men often sit before a blazing fire watching the flames, or look out of the window when it rains or snows, or note the dripping of water into a fountain. In such cases we may say that there is æsthetic gratification in so far as the organic conditions mentioned in the text are satisfied. The variety of detail here is generally sufficient to occupy the attention; but discontinuous observation keeps satisfaction at a very low level. Such activity is disinterested, and agrees with our definition of the beautiful; yet the absence of close organic connection changes it into something almost entirely different.

237.-INFERENCE.

We have thus far proceeded on the assumption of a sense uninfluenced by the environment; but this supposition, we know, is gratuitous. We will now correct this impression, and explain what would otherwise appear anomalous.

We sometimes insist on one aspect of an object. Being strongly in favour of a truthful rendering of things, we come to believe that a picture should hold the mirror up to nature. Guided by such considerations we are readily fascinated by paintings of this order. We turn to them and admire them passionately. Our eyes feed upon them like a bee nestling in a blossom, extracting the nectar of delight. We are transported in thought to the scenes called up. However, another man, who is primarily attracted by general impressions, loves the canvas which, while only hinting at the facts, suggests the mental attitude of the imaginary spectator. To the impressionist a scene true to nature repels, for he finds no soul therein. He asserts that a beautiful piece of country is transfigured by him who gazes at it. He cries aloud that only that art is great which takes cognisance of the mode in which we react on what is before us, and which re-instates the atmosphere of indefinable feeling which envelops us when lost in admiration. So, too, within the same school one man demands that pictorial art shall serve the ideal, while others ask that it shall present the various phases of life. As with pictures, so is it with the related

arts.

The sportsman, again, has a keen sense of the beauty of thoroughbreds, looking them over with evident enjoyment of make and shape, though outside his own particular hobby, he may have few interests. The admirer of the shire horse, on the other hand, may see no special beauty in the thoroughbred. In both instances, predilections determine what shall be praised; and in each case there is an objective basis for the belief. If the two types of horse displayed few details, the attention could not be fixed on them for any length of time. Both individuals have specialised, and therefore disagree. The fact that their pursuits have pro