Architecture is the least imitative of the arts, its freedom in the representation of nature being restricted by the necessity of serving the end of utility. It combines geometrical forms, and in the positions and proportions of these, is compelled to represent what we understand from experience of nature as natural balance.
The poet may give to a character sublime attributes far above experience, or expand form as Homer raises the stature of Strife to the heavens, but he cannot provide attributes beyond experience in kind, or any part of a form outside of nature. He may combine or rearrange, and enlarge or diminish as he will, and so may the painter, the sculptor, or musician, but he is powerless to create signs unknown to nature. It follows then, that he who imitates nature in the most beautiful way, that is to say, he who combines the signs of nature to form the most beautiful whole, produces the greatest work of art.
It would appear that upon the character of their principal signs is dependent the relative position of the arts in respect of the recognition of beauty therein. Of the six fine arts, namely, Poetry, Sculpture, Painting, Fiction, Music, and Architecture, the first four, which hereafter in this work will be known as the Associated Arts, have for their principal sign the human figure, to which everything else is subordinate; while in music the signs consist of tones, and in architecture, of lines.
All the other arts whose object is to give pleasure, as the drama, dancing, etching, are either modifications of one of the fine arts, or combinations of two or more of them. In recent times it has been held that poetry is a combined art, owing to the almost invariable use of a simple form of music in its construction, but it would appear that primarily poetry is independent of metrical assistance. This was clearly laid down by Aristotle, but modern definitions of the art have usually included some reference to metre.20 Now in our common experience two things are observable in respect of poetry. The first is, that when by way of admiration or criticism, we discuss the works of those poets whom all the world recognizes as the greatest known to us, we deal only with the substance of what is said, and the manner of saying it, without reference to the metrical form. In the second place we observe that the higher the poetry, the more simple is the metrical form with which it is associated. The great epics, which necessarily take first rank in poetry, have only metre, the higher musical measures in which lyrics are set being avoided. But as we descend in the scale of the art, metrical form becomes of more importance, and when simple subjects are dealt with, and a grand style is inappropriate, the production would not be called poetry unless in the form of verse.
PLATE 6
(See page 116)
In epic and dramatic poetry, we call one poet greater than another because of his superior invention and beauty of expression, let the measure be what it will. But the invention comes first, for only high invention can be clothed with lofty expression. The actions of deathless gods or god-like men; qualities of goodness, nobility, courage, grandeur, so high as to be above human reach: only these can form the subject of language and sentiment soaring into regions of the sublime, and indifferent to metrical artifice. In the sacred books of all great religions we may find the loftiest poetry without regular form, and any prose translation of the Greek poets will provide many examples,21 though often there is a cadence—a rise and fall in the flow of words which is more or less regular, and has the effect of emphasizing the sentiment, and of throwing the images upon the mind with directness and force. We must conclude then that in poetry, while metrical form is generally essential, it is not vital to the highest flights of the poet, and so strictly, poetry is primarily a pure and not a compound art.
Seeing that art uses the signs of nature of which man is at once a product and a tool, it must in its progress follow the general course of nature. In her development of life, nature is chiefly concerned in the improvements of types for her own purposes, and only uses the individual in so far as he can assist in this end, while the natural instinct of the individual is to conserve and improve his type. The art which represents life is compelled to deal chiefly with types, for it is only by the use of a type that the artist can apply his imagination to the production of high beauty, to whatever extent he may use the individual to help him in this purpose, and it is instinctive in the human being to maintain and improve the æsthetic attraction of the species. The highest art, as the highest work of nature, consists of the presentation of a perfected type. The artist therefore must consider the species before the individual; the essential before the accidental; the general before the particular.
The living signs of nature with which art deals are of two classes. In the one sign the position of parts is the same throughout the species, and is fixed and invariable, as in fully developed animals; in the other the position is irregular, and variable within limits, as in plants. In the latter case the position of parts may be commonly varied indefinitely without a sense of incongruity arising, as in a tree, and hence there can be no conceivable general form or type upon which art may build up perfected parts and proportions. In respect of such a sign therefore, art cannot improve, or appear to improve, upon nature, by combining perfected parts into a more beautiful whole than nature provides.
In the case of a fully developed animal, where the position of parts is fixed, a type may be conceived which is superior in symmetry and harmony to any individual of the species produced by nature, for the imagination is restricted to an unchangeable form, and has but to put together perfected parts and proportions. But this conception can only be applied in art to human beings, because in respect of other animals, while no two are alike, the members of each species, or each section of a species, seem to be alike, or so closely alike in form and expression, that no perfected type can be conceived which will appear to be superior in general beauty to the normal individual of the species, or section thereof, coming within actual experience. Thus, the most perfect conceivable racehorse painted on canvas, might in reality be more perfect in form than any actual racehorse, but to the observer of the picture it would not appear to be of greater perfection or higher beauty than racehorses that come, or may come, within experience. The poet may describe the actions and appearance of a courser in such a way as to suggest that the animal has qualities far above experience, but the form of the animal when thrown on the mind of the reader, would still appear to be within the bounds of experience.
With the human being, in addition to the general form there enters into consideration the countenance, which is the all-important seat of beauty, is the principal key to expression, and which, to the common knowledge, differs in every person in character and proportions. Nature never produces a perfect form with a perfect countenance, and she actually refuses to provide a countenance which is free from elements connected with purely human instincts and passions. But it is within the power of art to correct the work of nature in these respects—to put together perfect parts, and to provide a general expression approaching our highest conceptions of human majesty. Homer, Phidias, and Raphael have enabled us to throw upon our minds images far above any of actual experience.
Apart from these ideal forms, nature cannot be surpassed by art in the production of beauty, either in respect of animate or inanimate signs, separately or collectively, the latter because within the limitations of art, there is no grouping or arrangement of signs possible which would not appear to correspond with what may be observed in nature, unless something abnormal and less beautiful than any natural combination be presented.
Poetry, painting, and sculpture may be concerned with ideals. In fiction an ideal is impossible because the writer must treat of life as it is, or as it appears to be, within the bounds of experience. In neither music nor architecture is there a basic sign or combination of signs upon which the imagination may build up an ideal.
CHAPTER II
LAW OF RECOGNITION