CHAPTER II.

ART CREATION.

IN the last chapter I endeavoured to trace the rise and the development of the written language, to show how various kinds of alphabets first arose, and how finally true letters represented the sounds of speech. We also considered recorded language in its widest meaning, and then limited our definition of true literature to that which, by the medium of recorded words, presents to us in some form or

other ideas.

On the present occasion I wish to say first a few words about the nature and object of Art, and then to show, as well as I can, some of the methods by which the Poet attains the object of his art; and to contrast these methods with those used by the Painter and Sculptor.

First, therefore, while philosophy treats of ideas without forms, and science gives us forms without ideas (these two methods being often combined), the function of art is to produce forms that shall represent

ideas; and such artistic form, is an "entirety," real by virtue of the idea that it reveals.

This definition of art, though it may not seem to be so, is radically different from and subversive of the definition that has been given by several great thinkers, and which is repeated and accepted nowadays with such naïveté by those who do not see that by so doing they are confirming the most just verdict of banishment passed on such art by Plato.

Shortly stated, the two opposing definitions are the following-1. Art creates-its end is to reveal. 2. Art reproduces, ¿.e. imitates—its end is pleasure.

You will find that the view taken of art varies, in those who have any right to be called thinkers, with their philosophy. Let us hear what some of these

have to say.

First, as I have already shown, Plato, accepting the ordinary definition-that of imitation, and pleasure, excommunicates poetry as not only worthless but dangerous. And justly he does so; for, if we accept his premiss, poetry (and what he says of poetry applies equally to all art) should be banished from our lives. You remember, however, that, after pronouncing sentence, he still yearns towards her, and would fain recall the verdict if only she could be cleared of the charges brought against her. Let us therefore examine these charges.

Plato assumes as his premiss that art imitates nature. In this imitation, he says, "the author is

twice removed from the thing as it was created;" that is, he imitates an object which is itself only a representation, an imitation, of the truth which it represents. The natural object, standing exactly where it is in the order of things, fulfils its end. Taken out of that order of things, unconnected with the idea that it thus and there represents, it is like a dismembered branch. Stuck in the ground, it looks like a living thing for a time, but has no root and withers awaya dead stock. Life consists in unity. It is the One in the Many. A thing that is not an entirety is dead. Imitations from nature are not entireties.

Now our sole appeal against this is that art does not imitate. Its function does not lie in reproducing a likeness (however cleverly copied) on canvas, in marble, or in words. The worth of a picture, as a work of art, does not consist in its illusive qualities. It is no test of worth that (as was related of a production by Zeuxis) grapes should be so wonderfully reproduced that birds should peck at them, nor that a horse should neigh at his painted fellow horse. The study of nature is useful merely for the acquisition of material. The most laborious and clever reproduction of nature is in itself merely an accumulation of material, to be used perhaps by the accumulator, but more probably by the artist who appropriates the savings of these collectors, and builds with the materials brought together by these "hodmen" of art. Thus we see such poets as Dante and Shakespeare

making use of forms that they found already to hand-re-creating them with a new life. Indeed Goethe, seeing that "art is long and life short," actually advises the adoption of themes already worked up. In the "Faust" he has made Mephistopheles sing, as his serenade beneath the window of Margaret, a song which is almost a literal translation of Ophelia's "Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's day ;" and, in speaking to Eckermann on the subject, he asks, "Why should I give myself the trouble to compose a new song when Shakespeare's was exactly the right thing, saying just what was required?" This principle of recreation is of course a very different thing from a dead eclecticism. "Facts and characters," he also says, "being provided, the poet has only the task of animating the whole." And he goes on to state that the "knowledge of the world,” as well as the "region of love, hate, hope, despair, or by whatever other names you call the moods and passions of the soul," are innate with the poet, and he "needs not much experience or observation to represent them adequately." At the same time, if he wishes to escape criticism for offending against facttruth he must have recourse to experience or tradition; "for it is not born with him to know, for instance, how courts are held, or how a parliament or a coronation is managed."

I cannot but think that the results of the theory of imitation (or, perhaps, the disregard of all theories)

as seen in our modern galleries, theatres, and literature, is of the most deplorable character. Every one who has naturally, or has acquired, any skill in imitation but who may possess no artistic power whatsoever-dubs himself with the name of artist, and is accredited as such.

Our academies are filled with clever studies from nature, and tricks of colour, exceedingly ingenious and admirable as materials for a picture; and the more clever is the effect produced the greater is the market value of the painting. In the theatres, too, we find all the materials for a great drama: dazzling scenery, passions, stirring events, copied directly from nature in the most glowing colours-passions and scenery and events that in nature might be full of meaning, but are now utterly meaningless-endeavouring to simulate an appearance of life and reality by their gorgeous dress, like those bedecked and bejewelled corpses which the poet Morris describes in his "Earthly Paradise" as sitting amid regal splendour at their banquet.

Perhaps it may have occurred to some, as an objection to what I have said, that Shakespeare speaks of "holding up the mirror to nature." This expression (which is also used by Plato) is often quoted in support of the theory of imitation in art. If you will examine the context you will find that, firstly, the poet is speaking of playing and not of composing a part, and, secondly, that he explains