Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.




                          THE ORIGINS OF ART


                 [Illustration: Publisher’s monogram]




                                  THE

                            ORIGINS OF ART

                    A PSYCHOLOGICAL & SOCIOLOGICAL
                                INQUIRY


                                  BY
                               YRJÖ HIRN

           LECTURER ON ÆSTHETIC AND MODERN LITERATURE AT THE
                  UNIVERSITY OF FINLAND, HELSINGFORS


                                London
                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                    NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                 1900

                         _All rights reserved_




PREFACE


The aim and scope of this book is sufficiently indicated by its title.
I have endeavoured throughout to restrict my attention to questions
connected with the origins of art. Points of history and criticism have
been touched upon only in so far as they appeared to contribute towards
the elucidation of this purely psychological and sociological problem.
In order to save space as well as to spare the reader’s attention,
the descriptive parts have been concentrated as much as possible. As
a rule, only one ethnological example, which has been selected as
typical, is described in the text, while the corroborating examples
are represented by references in the footnotes. And even of these
references only such are adduced as have been considered especially
significant. Only in one matter have I aimed at completeness, viz.
that of reference to authors from whom I have borrowed facts or
observations. And whenever in earlier literature I have found theories
which have appeared similar to the views advanced in this book, these
similarities have been pointed out in the footnotes.

There is one point, however, to which the reader’s attention should
be called in this Preface. When treating of the art-impulse I
have—especially in the tenth chapter—mentioned in the footnotes some
modern writers on æsthetic, who, although starting from different
assumptions, have arrived at a conception of art which in many points
may be compared to the one advanced in this book. This comparison,
however, has not been carried out in the text. Considerations of
space account for this omission; but it has a further ground in the
circumstances under which the present work has originated. A part of
it, containing the examination of feeling and its expression, and the
chapter on “Animal Display,” was published in Swedish as early as
1896[1]—that is, before the above-mentioned authors had made their
theories known. This is not mentioned in order to raise any futile
questions of priority, but only as a justification of the way in which
my conclusions have been presented.

It has appeared to me that the continuity of the argument could not
but have been broken if, instead of proceeding from my original
starting-point, I had based my conclusions upon a critical examination
of modern æsthetic doctrines. And I trust that the differences between
the thesis of this book and other emotionalistic explanations will
appear with sufficient clearness to the attentive reader even if they
have not been expressly pointed out in the text.

There are, no doubt, many points, a fuller treatment of which might
have been to the advantage of the book. The force of circumstances
has compelled me to aim at brevity before anything. But even if it
had been possible to give this study a far greater comprehensiveness,
the difficulties of expressing myself in a foreign tongue would have
withheld me from any avoidable amplification. I have constantly been
conscious of my audacity in appearing before the English public without
sufficiently mastering the English language, and I have been anxious
not to make my offence greater by any number of pages than it already
is.

That it has been possible at all to publish this research in English
is only a result of the kind assistance which I have received from my
English friends. I am indebted to Mr. G. G. Berry in Oxford, and Mr.
Leonard Pomeroy in London, who have revised parts of the manuscript.
And I am further indebted to my publishers for procuring me the
assistance of Mr. Stephen Gwynn in preparing the book for the press.
He has helped me to avoid needlessly technical expressions, and in
other ways has given the work a more readable style. But he has not
restricted himself to these emendations. He has assisted me with
valuable suggestions as well as with information. The improvement
which the work has derived from his collaboration can be sufficiently
appreciated only by its author.

In purely scientific matters I have benefited much from discussions
with students of psychology and sociology in my own country as well as
in England. My thanks are due to all of them, but especially to my old
friends, Dr. Edward Westermarck and Dr. Richard Wallaschek.

The “List of Authorities quoted” and the Indexes have been compiled
by my wife. This is, however, only the least important part of the
assistance which throughout the book has been rendered to me by the
constant collaborator in all my researches.

                                                                  Y. H.

 HELSINGFORS, _August 1900_.




                               CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I
                                                                   PAGE
  THE PROBLEM STATED                                                   1


  CHAPTER II

  THE ART-IMPULSE                                                     18


  CHAPTER III

  THE FEELING-TONE OF SENSATION                                       30


  CHAPTER IV

  THE EMOTIONS                                                        43


  CHAPTER V

  THE ENJOYMENT OF PAIN                                               56


  CHAPTER VI

  SOCIAL EXPRESSION                                                   72


  CHAPTER VII

  DEDUCTION OF ART-FORMS                                              86


  CHAPTER VIII

  ART THE RELIEVER                                                   102


  CHAPTER IX

  THE WORK OF ART                                                    111


  CHAPTER X

  OBJECTIONS AND ANSWERS                                             134


  CHAPTER XI

  THE CONCRETE ORIGINS OF ART                                        143


  CHAPTER XII

  ART AND INFORMATION                                                149


  CHAPTER XIII

  HISTORICAL ART                                                     164


  CHAPTER XIV

  ANIMAL DISPLAY                                                     186


  CHAPTER XV

  ART AND SEXUAL SELECTION                                           203


  CHAPTER XVI

  THE ORIGINS OF SELF-DECORATION                                     214


  CHAPTER XVII

  EROTIC ART                                                         228


  CHAPTER XVIII

  ART AND WORK                                                       249


  CHAPTER XIX

  ART AND WAR                                                        261


  CHAPTER XX

  ART AND MAGIC                                                      278


  CHAPTER XXI

  CONCLUSIONS                                                        298

  LIST OF AUTHORITIES QUOTED                                         307

  INDEX OF AUTHORS                                                   323

  INDEX OF SUBJECTS                                                  328




                               CHAPTER I

                          THE PROBLEM STATED


When, one hundred and fifty years ago, Baumgarten wrote the treatise
to which he gave the name _Aesthetica_, and which he described as a
“theory of liberal arts and beautiful thinking,” it seemed to him
needful to apologise for attracting attention to a field of inquiry
so low and sensuous as that province of philosophy to which he then
affixed a name. Many, he thought, might regard art and beauty, which
appeal primarily to the senses, as subjects beneath the dignity of
philosophers.[2] Yet the theories and the ideas which were first
brought together as an organised body of thought in Baumgarten’s short
manual had so deeply influenced the speculations of his age that, a
generation later, the most important questions of life came to be
treated as æsthetic problems. The philosophy of art, far from needing
to justify its existence, dominated all philosophy—ethics, metaphysics,
and even cosmogony. Imagination was treated as the ruling faculty in
all creation, and beauty was referred to as the criterion, not only
in art, but in morality. Yet the importance thus given to æsthetic
speculation was transitory, and the period during which philosophers
were concerned, not only to find a general criterion of beauty for
the arts, but also to apply that criterion far beyond the sphere of
art, has been succeeded by an age which neglects speculation on art and
beauty for other tasks which are regarded as far more important. Such
rapid changes within a few generations appear almost incomprehensible.
But they can easily be explained if we take into account the intimate
connection which always exists between æsthetic speculation and
prevailing currents of thought.

In Mr. Bosanquet’s _History of Æsthetic_ it has been pointed out with
great clearness to what extent the earlier prosperity of æsthetic
studies was caused by the general philosophical situation. The theory
of æsthetic, as set forth in Baumgarten’s chapter on _cognitio
sensitiva_, and further developed in Kant’s _Kritik der Urtheilskraft_,
dealt, as is well known, with a form of judgment which is neither
purely rational nor purely sensual.[3] In metaphysics, for philosophers
who had to struggle with what seemed to them an irreconcilable
opposition between reason and the senses, this conception of a
mediative faculty must have satisfied a most urgent need. Similarly we
may suppose that the ethical observer felt himself emancipated from the
narrow antagonism between body and spirit by looking at our actions in
the æsthetic way. In proportion, however, as general science has been
able to do away with the old dualism of higher and lower faculties, the
judgment of taste has necessarily lost importance. In the development
of monistic philosophy and monistic morals we may thus see one
important factor, by the influence of which æsthetic has been ousted
from its central position.

The evolution of modern art has been still more injurious to æsthetic
speculation than the progress of science. In the palmy days of
art-philosophy conditions were eminently favourable to universal
generalisations. The great periods of art, classical antiquity and the
Renaissance, were so remote that only their simplest and most salient
features were discerned. Nor did the art of the period exhibit the
bewildering multiplicity of a fertile age,—least of all in Germany,
the home and centre of æsthetic inquiry. The formative arts were
less important than ever before; music, which was so soon to eclipse
all other arts, had not yet awakened the interest of philosophers.
The crafts were at a low ebb; landscape-gardening is indeed the only
kind of applied art that we hear about at this time. Beauty, art, the
ideal—these and all other general notions must have been suggested
with unsurpassable simplicity by this uniform and monotonous artistic
output. It is easy to understand the eagerness and the delight with
which the earlier writers on æsthetic, once the impulse given, drew
conclusions, made comparisons, and laid down laws. But it is equally
evident that speculative zeal was bound to fall off as soon as the
province of art was enlarged and its products differentiated.

Even the more intimate knowledge of classical culture which was
subsequently gained, necessitated important corrections in æsthetic
dogmas. The artistic activities of savage tribes, which have been
practically unknown to æsthetic writers until recent years, display
many features that cannot be harmonised with the general laws. And in
a yet higher degree contemporary art defies the generalisations of a
uniform theory. With greater mastery over materials and technique, the
different arts have been able to produce more and more specialised
forms of beauty. The painter’s ideal can no longer be confused with
that of the poet or the story-teller, nor the sculptor’s with that
of the actor. Pure music, pure poetry, pure painting, thus develop
into isolated, independent arts, of which each one establishes its
own laws and conditions for itself. The critic who, in spite of this
evolution, tries to apply a narrow æsthetic standard of beauty to
all the various arts may indeed—according to his influence—delay
the public appreciation of modern works, and thus indirectly impede
artistic development. But no amount of theorising will enable him to
arrest the growth of artistic forms whose very existence contradicts
the generalisations of the old systems. And he is equally powerless to
stop such violations of the supposed frontiers of the different arts
as continually occur, for instance, in descriptive music, or in poetry
like that of Gautier, which aims at producing a pictorial impression by
means of words.

It is only natural that, in times so inopportune, general speculations
on art and beauty have been more and more abandoned in favour of
detailed studies in the technicalities of art, historical researches
in which works of art are considered chiefly as documents bearing on
culture, and experiments on the physiology and psychology of æsthetic
perception. For art itself and its development it would perhaps be
unimportant if a science which has never exercised any great positive
and direct influence on artistic production should completely
disappear. But from the theoretical point of view it would be matter
for regret if artistic activities ceased to be considered as a whole.
And so also would it be if æsthetic feelings, judgments of taste,
and ideals of beauty came to be treated only in appendices to works
on psychology. It is true that all these notions have irremediably
lost their former metaphysical and philosophical importance. But in
compensation, art and beauty have for modern thinking acquired a
social and psychological significance. To determine the part which the
production and the enjoyment of works of art play in their relation to
the other factors of individual and social life—that is indeed a task
which is momentous enough to be treated in a science of its own. Modern
æsthetic, therefore, has still its own ends, which, if not so ambitious
as those of the former speculative science of beauty, are nevertheless
of no small importance. These ends, however, can no longer be attained
by the procedure of the old æsthetic systems. As the problems have
changed with changing conditions, so too the methods must be brought
into line with the general scientific development. Historical and
psychological investigation must replace the dialectic treatment of the
subject. Art can no longer be deduced from general, philosophical, and
metaphysical principles; it must be studied—by the methods of inductive
psychology—as a human activity. Beauty cannot be considered as a
semi-transcendental reality; it must be interpreted as an object of
human longing and a source of human enjoyment. In æsthetic proper, as
well as in the philosophy of art, every research must start, not from
theoretical assumptions, but from the psychological and sociological
data of the æsthetic life.

Such a procedure, however, is encumbered with difficulties, of which
the writers on speculative æsthetic were scarcely aware. When theories
of art and beauty were based on general _a priori_ principles, there
could not possibly be any doubt as to the point of departure in the
several researches. But when we have no assumptions to start from, the
very demarcation of the subject may become a matter of uncertainty.
In the philosophy of art, to which department of æsthetic I wish
to restrict my researches in the present work, this difficulty of
formulating the data and _quæsita_—the facts which we have to go upon,
and the facts which we wish to find out—constitutes the first, and by
no means the least important, problem.

If we are to embark upon a scientific treatment of art without any
preconceived definitions, the aim and conditions of such treatment
can only be determined by examining the prevailing notions on the
subject, as they are expressed in language and in literature. As an
interpretation for general use and of general applicability, a theory
of art can claim attention only if it conforms to the recognised
usage of the principal æsthetic terms. In the various definitions of
art which are contained in the different æsthetic systems, we must
therefore try to find some point of unity from which to approach our
subject. The difficulties of such a task are evident to any one who
has gone through the discouraging experience of reading a history of
æsthetic. The investigator who seeks an accurate demarcation of the
whole area of art, as distinguished from other departments of life,
meets with partial definitions which can be applied only to certain
fixed forms of art. We need mention but a few of the most typical
instances. Even an ardent admirer of Taine is compelled to admit that
his generalisations are too exclusively derived from the study of
poetry and the formative arts. In the same way it is only by laborious
adjustments that the theory of Vischer can be applied to music and
lyric poetry; the aphorisms of Ruskin do not even pretend to apply to
any but the formative arts; and Mr. Marshall’s _Æsthetic Principles_—to
adduce one of the most recent attempts in general art-theory—are too
obviously those of an expert in architecture. In none of the modern
systems has sufficient room been made for certain forms of art which,
from the evolutionist’s standpoint, are of the highest importance: such
as acting, dancing, and decoration. All the one-sided definitions are,
moreover, so inconsistent with each other that it seems impossible to
make up for their individual deficiencies by an eclectic combination.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if some writers on art,
confused by the bewildering contradictions of æsthetic theories, have
called in question the very existence of any universal art-criterion.[4]

Those who adopt this attitude—which seems the more justified now that
the arts have become widely differentiated—deny the possibility, not
only of all general art-philosophy, but also of any sociological and
psychological treatment of artistic activities as a whole. But even if
all other hypotheses are banished, æsthetic research cannot possibly
dispense with the fundamental assumption of the unity of art. And in
point of fact there can be found in most systems, if we do not insist
on too minute and positive demarcations, at least one common quality
which is ascribed to all its different forms. Notwithstanding the
mutual contradictions of art-theories, the believers in a general
æsthetic can always appeal to the consent with which the majority of
authors have upheld the negative criterion of art. Metaphysicians as
well as psychologists, Hegelians as well as Darwinians, all agree in
declaring that a work, or performance, which can be proved to serve any
utilitarian, non-æsthetic object must not be considered as a genuine
work of art. True art has its one end in itself, and rejects every
extraneous purpose: that is the doctrine which, with more or less
explicitness, has been stated by Kant,[5] Schiller,[6] Spencer,[7]
Hennequin,[8] Grosse,[9] Grant Allen,[10] and others. And popular
opinion agrees in this respect with the conclusions of science. This
distinctive quality of independence seems therefore to afford us a
convenient starting-point for the treatment of art in general.

Owing to its negative character, this criterion does not give us much
information as to the real qualities of art. But even the poorest
definition is enough to begin with, if it only holds good with regard
to all particular cases. Unfortunately, however, we need only apply
the test of independence in the concrete instance to find that even
the applicability of this single accepted criterion may be seriously
disputed. There is scarcely any author, however he may formulate his
general definitions of art, who would assess the relative value of
art-works according to their degrees of disinterestedness. No candid
man would, for instance, nowadays contend that an arabesque composition
is _per se_ more æsthetically pure than a statue or a poem.[11] But
we may even go farther. We must question whether every work of art
ought to be degraded from its æsthetic rank, if it can be convicted of
having served any external utilitarian purpose. This strict conception
of the æsthetic boundaries has been eloquently attacked by Guyau in
his celebrated treatise, _Le principe de l’art et de la poésie_.[12]
Though the ultimate conclusions of this work are perhaps not so clear
as might be desired, yet we do not see how his attitude in estimating
concrete manifestations of art can be assailed. It would, to take an
example, be absurd to contend that the singing of Taillefer lost in
æsthetic value by contributing to the victory of Hastings. And however
strictly we may insist upon the requirement that every genuine work
of art should have been created purely for its own sake, we cannot
possibly conceal the fact that some of the world’s finest love lyrics
were originally composed, not in æsthetic freedom, which is independent
of all by-purposes, but with the express end of gaining the ear and
the favour of a beloved woman. The influence which such foreign,
non-æsthetic motives have exercised on art will also become more and
more apparent with increased knowledge of the conditions of æsthetic
production. The further the psychological biographer pushes his
indiscreet researches into the private life of individual artists, the
more often will he find that some form of interest—personal, political,
ethical, religious—enters into the so-called disinterested æsthetic
activity. Such instances must induce undogmatic authors to relax to
some extent the strict application of this criterion. And even those
philosophers who, in spite of the historical evidence, insist upon
applying it will be compelled to admit that they have taken for works
of genuine art productions which, from their philosophic standpoint,
have no claim to the title.

The danger of such mistakes is all the greater when one has to deal
with the lower stages of artistic development. In point of fact recent
ethnological researches have conclusively proved that it is not only
difficult, but quite impossible, to apply the criterion of æsthetic
independence to the productions of savage and barbarous tribes. It is
true that the large province of primitive art has not as yet in its
entirety been made the subject of systematic study. But, on the other
hand, the results which have been arrived at with regard to decoration,
its most typical form, amply bear out our view. In almost every case
where the ornaments of a tribe have been closely examined, it has
appeared that what to us seems a mere embellishment is for the natives
in question full of practical, non-æsthetic significance. Carvings on
weapons and implements, tattooings, woven and plaited patterns, all
of which the uncritical observer is apt to take for purely artistic
compositions, are now explained as religious symbols, owners’ marks,
or ideograms. There is still room for discussion as to whether in
certain individual interpretations the tendency to look for concealed
meanings has not been carried too far. But there can be no doubt that
the general principles which to many students seemed so fantastic
when first formulated by Stolpe, Read,[13] and others, have derived
additional support from every fresh inquiry into primitive systems of
decoration.

The isolated researches which have been carried on within the
department of primitive literature and drama all point in the same
direction. Wherever ethnologists have the opportunity of gaining some
insight into the inner life of a savage tribe, they are surprised at
the religious or magical significance which lies concealed behind
the most apparently trivial of amusements. And it is to be remarked
that they have learned to appreciate this esoteric meaning, not by a
closer study of the manifestations themselves, but through information
acquired by intercourse with the natives. There is often not a single
feature in a savage dance which would give the uninitiated any reason
to suspect the non-æsthetic purpose. When North American Indians,
Kaffirs, or Negroes perform a dance in which all the movements of the
animals they hunt are imitated, we unavoidably see in their antics an
instance of primitive but still purely artistic drama. It is only from
the descriptions of Catlin, Lichtenstein, and Reade[14] that we learn
that these pantomimes have in reality quite as practical a purpose
as those imitations and representations of animals by which hunters
all over the world try to entice their game within shooting distance.
According to the doctrine of sympathetic magic, it is simply an
axiomatic truth that the copy of a thing may at any distance influence
the thing itself, and that thus a buffalo dance, even when it is
performed in the camp, may compel the buffaloes to come within range of
the hunters. But the deceptive appearance of disinterestedness, which
in these cases might have led one to mistake a mere piece of hunting
magic for a specimen of pure dramatic art, is apt to make us cautious
about accepting as independently æsthetic any performance of primitive
man.

In the songs and dances by which savages exhort themselves to work and
regulate their exertions we find an aspect of utilitarian advantage
which is real and not imaginary. Evidently also this advantage,
and not any independent æsthetic pleasure, is—intentionally or
unintentionally—aimed at in the war-pantomimes, the boating songs,
dances, etc. And it is no doubt for this reason that music and dance
have attained so surprising a development in the lower stages of
culture. In trying, therefore, to explain the historical development of
art, we are compelled to take into account that foreign purpose which
is repudiated in art-theory.

If every work of art were really an end in itself—a
_Selbstzweck_—standing quite isolated from all the practical utilities
of life, it would be nothing less than a miracle that art should be
met with in tribes which have not yet learnt to satisfy, nor even to
feel, the most elementary necessities of life. In such a case it is
not music only which would, as Wallace thinks, have to be explained
by supernatural causes:[15] primitive art in all its departments
would baffle our attempts at rational interpretation. By studying,
however, the artistic activities of savage and barbarous man in their
connection with his non-æsthetic life, writers on evolutionary æsthetic
have succeeded in solving this great crux of art-history. The dances,
poems, and even the formative arts of the lower tribes possess indeed,
as every ethnologist will admit, unquestionable æsthetic value.
But this art is seldom free and disinterested; it has generally a
usefulness—real or supposed—and is often even a necessity of life.[16]

A historical conception of art is thus, it appears, incompatible with
a strict maintenance of the æsthetic criterion. But it may still be
asked whether we are therefore compelled to join Guyau in abolishing
all distinctions between art and other manifestations of human
energy.[17] By doing away with the only definition which is common
to the majority of æsthetic systems, we should dissociate ourselves
from all previous views on art. And it seems hard to believe that all
dogmatic writers on æsthetic, one-sided as they may often seem, have
founded their theories on a pure fiction. The independent æsthetic
activity, which simply aims at its own satisfaction, cannot have been
invented for the sake of the systems. The mere fact that so many
theories have been proposed for its explanation furnishes, it seems to
us, a sufficient proof that the conception of this activity corresponds
to some psychological reality. Certainly the “end in itself” has not
played so important a part in the practice of artists as writers on
æsthetic would have us believe; and it is impossible to distinguish
its effects in concrete individual instances. But from all we know
of the life and work of artists, there appears to be a tendency—more
or less consciously followed, it is true, in different cases—to make
the work its own end. And in the public we can in the same way notice
an inclination—which grows with increasing culture—to regard art
as something which exists for its own sake, and to contemplate its
manifestations with independent æsthetic attention. Whatever we may
think about the genesis of particular pictures and poems, we know that
at least they need no utilitarian, non-æsthetic justification in order
to be appreciated by us. And with as much assurance as we can ever
feel in comparative psychology we may take it for granted that the
same way of looking at art has prevailed in other stages of culture
as well. However cautious one may be in drawing conclusions from
analogies between higher and lower forms, a closer study of primitive
art must needs compel every one to admit that these dances, poems, and
ornaments, even if they originally served practical, religious, or
political aims, may at least have come by degrees to be enjoyed in the
same way as we enjoy our art. By denying such subjective independence
in the creation and enjoyment of art, we should be no less guilty
of one-sidedness than those authors who deny that genuine art has
ever been influenced by “foreign purposes.” If it is presumptuous to
adduce any particular works or manifestations in proof of free and
independent production, it may be no less audacious to contend that
even the most primitive form of art has flourished in tribes destitute
of all æsthetic cravings. There is room for discussion on the degree
of influence which “autotelic”[18] artistic activity has exercised in
particular works and manifestations. It may also be made an object of
research to determine at which precise stage of development æsthetic
attention becomes so emancipated as to entitle us to speak of a pure
and free art-life. But it does not seem that such inquiries can ever
lead to any positive result. The more one studies art, especially
primitive art, from a comparative and historical point of view, the
more one is compelled to admit the impossibility of deciding where
the non-æsthetic motives end and the æsthetic motives begin. The only
result we can reach is the somewhat indefinite one that it is as
impossible to explain away the artistic purpose as it is to detect its
presence in a pure state in any concrete work of art.

For art-philosophy as a distinct science even this non-committal
conclusion is of vital importance. It gives us a right to regard all
the forms and developments of art as witnesses to an activity which
tends to become more and more independent of the immediate utilities of
life. This tendency, on the other hand, not only affords us a point of
unity from which to start upon a research into the general philosophy
of art; it also presents to us one of the greatest problems of the same
science. How it is that mankind has come to devote energy and zeal
to an activity which may be almost entirely devoid of a utilitarian
purpose is indeed the riddle, sociological as well as psychological,
which would seem in the first place to claim the attention of the
philosopher. To the writer of this book, at any rate, it appeared that
a discussion, and an attempt at solution, of this seeming paradox was
a task sufficiently important and interesting to form of itself the
subject of a special investigation.

But although the aspects of autotelic artistic activity give us at once
a datum and a problem on which we may confidently base our research,
we must not overlook the peculiar difficulties that will necessarily
arise from the exclusively psychological, non-historical character of
this basis. A historic study of art shows us that the artistic activity
proper can never be explained by examining concrete works as we meet
them in reality. Whenever we have to deal with art as autotelic, the
need of theoretical abstraction forces itself upon us with irresistible
cogency. It is of no avail to argue from the data of art-history,
because we can never fully know the mental origin of the works.
The problem presented to us by the tendency to engage in artistic
production and artistic enjoyment for their own sake can only be
solved by studying the psychology both of artists and of their public.
The “art-impulse” and the “art-sense,” as referring to subjective
tendencies in creators and spectators, are the chief notions with which
we have to operate in such an investigation. And when we are obliged to
introduce the notion of the “work of art” we have to remember that this
term, strictly speaking, refers to an abstract and ideal datum. Only
by thus restricting our attention to the psychical facts can we attain
any clear conception of that autotelic aspect of art on which so much
stress has been laid in all æsthetic philosophy.

It is needless to say, however, that even a purely philosophic
interpretation of art would be impossible without a knowledge of its
works and manifestations as they appear in real life, with all their
extraneous, non-æsthetic elements. The psychological examination must
therefore necessarily be supplemented by an historical one. The methods
of the latter research cannot be the same as those used in a strictly
æsthetic inquiry. And the words will naturally be employed in a
different sense. We do not at that stage demand of a poem, a painting,
or a drama, that it should fulfil more than the technical requirements
of the several arts. The ornamentation of a vase, _e.g._ is in this
sense a work of art even if it serves a magical, _i.e._ a supposed
practical purpose. Indeed it is most advantageous, if we wish to bring
out the influence of sociological factors with the greatest possible
clearness, to concentrate our attention upon the very qualities which
we have to disregard in the treatment of purely artistic activity. The
productions of primitive tribes, in which art is so closely connected
with life, supply the most profitable material for such a study. After
having examined, in these simple forms, all the sociological aspects
of art, it will be possible to place the two art-factors in the most
illustrative antithesis and to study their mutual influence. From this
it should be possible to suggest—although in this work no detailed
attempt will be made to follow out the reasoning—why it is that the
concrete work of art, although its historical origin may be entirely
non-æsthetic, has always proved so eminently adapted to serve the needs
of the purely aesthetic craving. And by starting from the conception of
æsthetic activities which has been arrived at on psychological grounds,
it should also be possible to determine the particular qualities in
individual works of art which make them more or less able to satisfy
this craving. Thus a theory of the psychological and sociological
origins of art may furnish suggestions for those which have been
considered as distinctive of æsthetic proper, such as the critical
estimation of works of art, or the derivation of laws which govern
artistic production.




                              CHAPTER II

                            THE ART-IMPULSE


There are two things which have to be investigated—the reason why
works of art are created, and the reason why works of art are enjoyed.
By choosing at the outset to approach art in its active aspect—to
examine into the impulse of the artist—we do not desert the central
field of æsthetic inquiry. On the contrary, it seems that a study of
art-production affords the most convenient starting-point for any
comprehensive treatment of art; all the more because every æsthetic
pleasure, even when apparently most passive, always involves an element
of unconscious artistic creation.[19] When absorbed in the beauty of
nature we do in fact appear to ourselves to be entirely receptive;
but in truth our enjoyment, if the enjoyment has any æsthetic value
at all, is always more or less derived from the activity of our own
mind. It does not matter much, from the psychological point of view,
whether we make an abortive but original effort to select and arrange
the impressions which we receive, as is the case when a new aspect
of nature delights us, or whether we merely reproduce at second hand
the impression originally arranged by an artist, as happens when we
admire a statue, or recognise in a landscape some effect that Turner
has recorded.[20] In either case the passive attitude can never be
explained without reference to the active one.

In the historic interpretation of art it is of no less importance
to study its productive side. It is only by considering art as an
activity that we can explain the great influence which it has exercised
on social as well as on individual life. These are, however, views
which can only be properly established in the later chapters. Here
we have merely to dwell on the aspects which present themselves to
the psychological observer; and there is no doubt that from his point
of view the impulse to produce works of pure art constitutes the
chief æsthetic problem. If once the creation has been satisfactorily
accounted for, it is relatively easy to explain the subsequent
enjoyment of art. Accordingly, by concentrating our attention on the
art-impulse we approach the art-problem at its very core.

It has, however, been contended by some authors that the independence
of external motives is nothing peculiar to art-production. There is,
undoubtedly, a certain kind of scientific study—for instance, some
departments of higher mathematics—which may be carried on entirely
for its own sake without any regard to practical application, or even
to increased knowledge of nature. And it is even more impossible to
find any immediate utilitarian purpose for all the intense activity,
mental and physical, which is devoted to sports and games. Every one
knows that the “end in itself” which any of these affords may in many
cases exercise as great an attraction as any of the utilitarian aims
in life. Chess is said to have a demoniac power over its devotees,
and the attachment of a golfer to his game can only be described in
the language of the most intense passion. The same sacrifice of energy
and interests to a one-sided and apparently useless purpose, which
in art seems so mysterious, may thus, as Professor Groos remarks, be
found in activities of far less repute.[21] It is evident that if
artistic creation were in no wise different from these other examples
of autotelic manifestations, there would be no ground for considering
the art-impulse as a separate or distinctive problem.

We can scarcely believe, however, that even Professor Groos himself
would seriously maintain the parallel between art-production and the
last-mentioned activities. There are indeed cases in which a man of
science devotes his whole energy to a task which is so abstract that
it seems to give no satisfaction to the craving for positive truth.
But it is always an open question whether the attractiveness of such
researches is not, strictly speaking, more æsthetic than scientific.
Higher mathematics is perhaps, for those that live in the world of
abstract quantities, only an abstract form of art, a soundless music or
a wordless poetry. In other cases the eagerness with which pure science
is pursued as an autotelic end may be explained as a result of acquired
habits. Like the miser, the passionate researcher may often gradually
lose sight of the ultimate aim of his activity and concentrate all
his attention on the means. There can be no question of denying the
emotional value and the great attractive force which thus comes to be
attached to these secondary purposes. But in comparing such autotelic
activities to those of art we have to remember that the passion,
however intense it may be, is probably not primary but derived;
and it is in any case self-evident that it can be developed only in
exceptional cases and in peculiarly predisposed individuals.

By the same criterion we can also separate the art-desire from the love
of games and sports. However passionate the sporting mania may be in
individuals or nations, it can never be compared as a universal and
primary impulse with the craving for æsthetic creation. Philosophers
who bestow their whole attention only on the mature works which can
be studied in the history of art, may indeed contend that even the
art-impulse is given to some favoured few. But this view, which would
reduce all art-life to the status of a great and marvellous exception,
cannot possibly be upheld in a psychological æsthetic.

It is, no doubt, the fact that the percentage of executive artists in
modern nations is an almost negligible quantity. It is also probable
that—contrary to a common notion—the poets, the painters, and the
dramatists form a distinct class even among the lower tribes.[22]
But in treating the art-impulse as a psychological phenomenon the
inquiry cannot be restricted to the few individuals who publicly
practise a certain art. As far as the artistic _powers_ are concerned,
these undoubtedly stand apart from the rest of mankind. But we are
not entitled to maintain that they are also distinguished by some
peculiar psychical _impulse_. From the point of view of artistic
perfection, there is all the world between the youthful verses of
Goethe and the doggerel of a common schoolboy. But, psychologically,
the schoolboy’s doggerel may be the result of as strong a craving for
poetic expression as any of the world’s greatest poems.[23] Bad or
good, known or unknown, every manifestation of artistic activity is
equally illustrative for our purpose. We have to count with the immense
number of dilettanti who produce in privacy and in secret, as well
as with recognised artists. And even those unfortunate persons who
have never been able to find for themselves any satisfactory mode of
æsthetic expression may still be adduced in proof of the universality
of the artistic desire. If the notion of art is conceived in its most
general sense, every normal man, at some time of his life at least, is
an artist—in aspiration, if not in capacity.

If, moreover, we take into consideration the eagerness and devotion
which is lavished upon artistic activity—not least, perhaps, by those
who have never appeared as artists—we shall be compelled to admit that
the art-impulse is not only commoner, but also stronger and deeper,
than any of the above-mentioned non-utilitarian impulses. If it can
be explained at all, it is only by deriving it from some great and
fundamental tendency of the human mind. This fact has, naturally
enough, not been realised by those writers on æsthetic who only study
the ideal work of art as it appears among civilised nations. In
short, the great systems of æsthetic philosophy have never expressly
stated the problem of finding an origin for the art-impulse; and any
interpretation of that impulse which may be derived constructively
from their speculations upon the work of acknowledged artists is
irreconcilable with the wider notion of art as a universal human
activity. If the aim of every artist really were, as Vischer must
have thought, to reinstate by the creation of a semblance the Idea in
the position from which it is in Reality always thrust by material
accidents; if he desired, for instance, to show a human character as it
would be but for the accidents of life;[24] or if, to use the language
of Taine, the artist’s main object were to produce a representation of
nature in which the essential characters enjoy an absolute sovereignty;
if he strove to depict a lion in such a way to emphasise specially
these leonine traits which distinguish the lion from any other great
cat,[25]—then it would be hard to understand the attraction which
art has exercised on people who are almost devoid of intellectual
cravings. We could not possibly find any connection between modern
and primitive art. Nor could we explain why, for instance, poetry and
music are so often cultivated by persons who do not otherwise show
the slightest eagerness to understand the hidden nature of things,
who do not meddle with ideas or “dominating faculties.” Even in the
case of philosophically-minded artists such motives are probably
somewhat feeble. The intellectualistic definitions may perhaps explain
the æsthetic qualities of the work of art itself. But they can never
account for the constraining force by which every genuine work of art
is called into existence.

There are some authors, however, who have felt the need of a dynamic
explanation of the art-impulse, which should trace the motive force
to its origin. It was so with Aristotle when he interpreted artistic
production as a manifestation of the desire to imitate. By this theory
art is indeed brought into connection with a general animal impulse,
the æsthetic importance of which can scarcely be overestimated. It
is only by reference to the psychology of imitative movements that
we shall be able to explain the enjoyment of art. But it seems,
nevertheless, somewhat strained to make imitation the basis and purpose
of artistic activity, seeing that there are various forms of art, as,
for instance, architecture and purely lyrical music or poetry, in which
we can scarcely detect any imitative element at all. The theories of
Aristotle, of Seneca, and all their modern followers, can only be
upheld if the word “imitation” is used in a much wider sense than
that which it generally bears. But even those who, with Engel, would
consider the bodily movements as “imitating the thoughts,”[26] or those
who in æsthetic would speak of “circulary reaction”[27] as a phenomenon
of imitation, would find it hard to discover in any of these relatively
automatic manifestations such a mental compulsion as that which impels
to artistic activity. Moreover, as we need scarcely point out, art in
all its forms always strives after something more than a mere likeness.

It seems equally superfluous to emphasise the fact that no genuine
artist has made it his sole object to please. The fatal confusion
between art-theory and the science of beauty has indeed led some
writers on æsthetic to derive artistic activities from an impulse
to “produce objects or objective conditions which should attract by
pleasing.”[28] Such views will especially recommend themselves to
those who believe in an animal art called forth by sexual selection.
Nor can it be denied that the means of attraction employed in the
competition for the favour of the opposite sex supply a part of the
material which is used in the various arts.[29] With the artistic
impulse itself, which, according to its very definition, is independent
of external motives, the various means of attraction have no connection
whatever.[30]

From the theoretical point of view it is undoubtedly easier to
defend Professor Baldwin’s way of stating the case, in which the
“self-exhibiting impulse” takes the place of the “instinct to attract
by pleasing.”[31] Figuratively speaking, an element of self-exhibition
is involved in every artistic creation which addresses itself to a
public. And without a public—in the largest sense of the word—no art
would ever have appeared. But it seems somewhat difficult to make this
self-exhibiting—in a sense which implies an actual audience—the aim and
purpose of, for instance, the most intimate and personal examples of
lyrical poetry.

It may of course be contended, by those who advocate the importance
of the last-mentioned interpretations, that the variety of art-forms
compels us to assume, not one, but several art-impulses. At this stage
of our research we cannot enter upon a discussion of such views; but it
will at least be admitted that explanations which can be applied in the
whole field of art must be preferable to partial definitions.

This merit of universality, at least, cannot be denied to the theories
which derive art from the playing impulse. The notion of a sportive
activity involves precisely that freedom from external, consciously
utilitarian motives which, according to the consensus of almost all
writers on æsthetic, is required in every genuine manifestation of
art. It is not surprising, therefore, that it was by reference to the
play-impulse that Schiller tried to distinguish artistic production
from all “unfree” forms of activity.[32] It is true that the notion
of “play” as used by Schiller and Spencer—who has given the theory
a physiological foundation—is chiefly important as a negative
demarcation. But even Schiller brings in a positive factor when he
speaks of the force by which “overflowing life itself urges the animal
to action” (“wenn das überflüssige Leben sich selbst zur Thätigkeit
stachelt”).[33] In Spencer’s theory, on the other hand, the “excessive
readiness” to nervous discharge which accompanies every surplus of
vigour, and which, in his view, accounts for play, represents a motor
element, the impelling force of which must be considered as very
strong.[34] As is well known, Spencer, Wallace, and Hudson have applied
this principle of surplus energy to explain so-called animal art,
rejecting the theory which ascribes æsthetic judgment to the female.[35]

As formulated by the last-mentioned authors, the play-theory is,
however, open to objection from a physiological point of view. It has
been remarked by Dr. Wallaschek that, in speaking of animals, the
phrase “surplus of vigour” ought to be superseded by “inapplicability
of energy” or “unemployed energy.”[36] And still more explicitly
Professor Groos has shown that a stored-up supply of energy is by no
means a necessary condition for play.[37] But these criticisms have
by no means deprived the play-instinct of its importance as a dynamic
factor. Since Groos by his epoch-making researches has been able to
prove that the majority of games—especially the games of youth—are
based upon instincts, we can adduce as an impelling force “the demon
instinct that urges and even compels to activity not only if and so
long as the vessel overflows (to use a figure of speech), but even
when there is but a last drop left in it.”[38] By considering artistic
activity as a kind of play, one is therefore able to account for its
great attractiveness, even when no “surplus of vigour” can be shown to
exist.

In the beginning of this chapter we did indeed contend that the
“compulsion” which prompts to artistic activity is too strong to
be even compared with the passion for sports and games. But this
superiority may of course be explained as a result of some peculiarity
of this special kind of play. As a matter of fact art is, in a far
higher degree than any of the sports and games, able to satisfy the
_greatest_ and most _fundamental_ instincts of man. Groos has tried
to prove that the artistic motives which in all times have been
most popular, offer to the spectator as well as to the producer an
opportunity for warlike and erotic stimulation;[39] and Guyau had
already remarked how important a part the moods of war, or rather of
struggle, play in all enjoyment of art.[40] It is easy to understand
the eager prosecution of an activity which thus affords free, if
imaginary, exercise for instincts and tendencies which would otherwise
be thwarted by the narrow restrictions of social life. We are all
animals in captivity, and we eagerly seize every kind of vicarious
function which can give at least a memory of the life from which we are
excluded.

At lower stages of social evolution, where instincts are more in
harmony with life, the play-element in art must evidently be of
still greater importance. Artistic production and artistic enjoyment
provide exercise for those very functions which are most important in
real life. Art fulfils a great social mission, and is developed in
subservience to the struggle for life. The play-theory, as formulated
by Professor Groos, affords, therefore, in many cases an explanation of
the high artistic level reached by the lower tribes. In our historical
treatment of primitive dances and dramas we shall be continually
obliged to have recourse to this theory. And it will thus appear that
it is no deficient appreciation of its importance which compels us to
look elsewhere for an explanation for the artistic impulse.

Play and art have indeed many important characteristics in common.
Neither of them has any immediate practical utility, and both of them
do nevertheless serve some of the fundamental needs of life. All
art, therefore, can in a certain sense be called play. But art is
something more than this. The aim of play is attained when the surplus
of vigour is discharged or the instinct has had its momentary exercise.
But the function of art is not confined to the act of production; in
every manifestation of art, properly so called, something is made and
something survives. It is true that in certain manifestations—for
instance in the dance or in acting—the effect is destroyed as soon as
created; it survives only in the rhythm devised by the dancer, or in
the spectator’s memory of the part played. But this is accidental, not
essential to the nature of the arts as arts. On the other hand, there
is nothing in the nature of the play-impulse to call for a stereotyping
of the state of mind and feelings to which it gives rise. Still less
can the artistic qualities, such as beauty and rhythm, which, however
difficult to define scientifically, always characterise works of
art, be interpreted as a result of the play-impulse. The theories of
Schiller, Spencer, and Groos may indeed explain the negative criterion
of art, but they cannot, any more than the imitation theories or the
Darwinian interpretation, give us any positive information as to the
nature of art.

In order to understand the art-impulse as a tendency to æsthetic
production, we must bring it into connection with some function, from
the nature of which the specifically artistic qualities may be derived.
Such a function is to be found, we believe, in the activities of
emotional expression.

It is therefore to the psychology of feeling and expression that we
shall turn for the solution of the problem of the art-impulse.




                              CHAPTER III

                     THE FEELING-TONE OF SENSATION


Before attempting to prove that the impelling force in art-creation
is to be explained by the psychology of feeling, we must first pay
some attention to the general theory of emotional states. It would be
impossible to assert anything about the æsthetic importance of such
activities as have their origin in emotional conditions without first
having made out the relation between feeling and movement.

In this purely psychological investigation it is advantageous to
postpone all æsthetic considerations. The important thing is to get
hold of the mental factors in their simplest possible form. Even
the lowest feelings, therefore, the feeling-tones of mere physical
sensation or the vaguest emotional states, such as comfort or
discomfort, which are overlooked in all works on æsthetic proper, may
be of great value in this preliminary discussion.

It is preferable to begin with the feeling-tones of definitely physical
origin, because these hedonic elements have been subjected to an
experimental investigation which could never be undertaken with regard
to the complex emotions and sentiments. As early as 1887 Féré published
some important researches on the relation between sensation and
movement. By submitting persons to various external stimuli, he showed
that every such stimulus calls forth a modification of the activities
of the body, which modification, according to the intensity and the
duration of the stimulus, takes the character either of enhancement
or of arrest. In all cases when the apparatus used in the experiments
indicated a shortened reaction-time and an increased development of
energy, the subject of the experiment had experienced a feeling of
pleasure. Every painful stimulus, on the other hand, was connected with
a diminution of energy.[41]

These results have been corroborated in the main by the later
researches of Lehmann. He has not, however, restricted his attention
to the development of energy, but has also measured the changes in
pulsation and respiration which occur under the influence of various
stimuli. His conclusions are these:—

“Simple pleasurable sensations are accompanied by dilatation of the
blood-vessels, and perhaps also by an increase in the amplitude of
heart-contraction, together with an increase in the innervation of the
voluntary muscles, at least of those connected with respiration. In
sensations of pain one has to distinguish the first shock of irritation
from the subsequent state. At the moment of irritation there ensues a
deeper inhalation, and, if the irritation is strong, also an increase
in the innervation of voluntary muscles. Then there generally follows a
relaxation.”[42]

The physiological theory of pleasure and pain which can be deduced
from these experiments is, however, neither new nor original. Féré
has himself pointed out that his researches only serve to prove the
views which have been advanced with more or less explicitness by Kant,
Bain, Darwin, and Dumont.[43] All authors who have closely studied the
movements of expression have also remarked that pleasurable feelings
are accompanied by a tendency towards increased activity (Gratiolet,
Darwin, Bain, Bouillier, Mantegazza).[44] And the popular views on
pleasure and pain, as we find them expressed in literature, all agree
on this point: “La joie est l’air vital de notre âme. La tristesse
est un asthme compliqué d’atonie.”[45] Every one knows that movement
and unchecked increased activity generally create pleasure. And, on
the other hand, functional inhibition is in our experience closely
connected with feelings of pain.

Although these broad facts are universally recognised, there is
nevertheless no unanimity with regard to their interpretation. It
may be held, on the one hand, that the perception of those objective
conditions which call forth pleasure is accompanied by a tendency
to movement. That, conversely, movement creates pleasure would thus
be the result of an association. But it may also be contended that
the functional enhancement, the stimulation itself, when present to
consciousness, is perceived as pleasure, and that the feeling-tone
created by movement is thus not indirect and secondary, but, on the
contrary, is a typical pleasure.

We do not by any means deny the influence which associative processes
exercise on all our feelings and on the activities connected with
them. As has been shown by Darwin, animals as well as primitive man
have earned their chief enjoyment, outside their delight of warmth
and repose, by violent actions, such as hunting, war, and pairing
fights.[46] And if it be objected that memories from those distant
times cannot now influence our feelings, it must at least be admitted
that within the life of the individual a firm foundation is laid for
association between pleasure and activity.[47] Independently of all
general theories, we must therefore reckon with association as a
factor by which the motor element of pleasure is greatly increased.
But it seems to us impossible to make the remembrance—conscious or
unconscious—of earlier similar states the only ground of the activity
which is connected with pleasurable feelings.

It is at least far more simple and consistent to explain, with
Hamilton and Bain, the activity itself as the physiological condition
of pleasure. If any increase of function—whether brought about by
chemical, mechanical, or psychical (that is, indirectly mechanical)
influences—be considered as a physiological condition of pleasure, and
any arrest of function in the same way be considered as a counterpart
of pain, then all states of pleasure or pain may be included in one
common interpretation. Only it must be remembered that the increase
of function can never be measured by any absolute standard. The same
stimulus which in one individual calls forth pleasure may in another
individual cause pain, and the same bodily activity which we enjoy
when in a vigorous state of health may occasion suffering when we
are weak or ill. Such variations are evidently conditioned by the
varying functional powers of the organs involved. When these powers are
reduced, a stimulus, or a movement which usually produces a stimulating
effect, may instead call forth depression and pain.

In every explanation of pleasure-pain, attention must therefore be paid
not only to the claims which are made on the several organs by the
objective causes (stimuli or movements), but also to the capacity of
the organs to meet these claims. This capacity, on the other hand, is
evidently dependent upon the supply of energy afforded by the nutritive
processes. In the endeavour to pay due attention to both these factors
Lehmann has been led to this conclusion: “Pleasure and pain may in all
cases be assumed to be the psychical outcome of the relation between
the consumption of energy which at a given moment is demanded from the
organs, and the supply of energy which is afforded by nutrition.”[48]
In the course of a lengthy and laborious investigation Marshall has
arrived at a very similar result: “Pleasure and pain are determined by
the relation between the energy given out and the energy received at
any given moment by the physical organs which determine the content
of that moment.” Pleasure is experienced, according to Marshall’s
definition, whenever a surplus of stored energy is discharged in the
reaction to the stimulus; pain is experienced whenever a stimulus
claims a greater development of energy in the reaction than the organ
is capable of affording.[49]

In this mode of treatment due attention is paid to those theories
according to which the conditions of pleasure are to be sought, not in
expenditure of force, but in the receiving of force or in the recovery
of balance.[50] But though this point has its own importance, it cannot
by any means be put on a level with the dynamic aspect. Pleasure _can
never arise_ when the organs are not well-nourished, strong, and
capable of function; but it arises only _on the condition_ that they
actually do perform a function. As Marshall has rightly remarked,
there is no reason to believe that surplus of vigour and receipt of
nourishment in themselves could ever be objects of consciousness.[51]
As long as we can speak of mental states, these must be accompanied
by corresponding activities. The chief merit of Marshall’s thesis is
precisely this, that every emotional state, independently of its tone
and of its perceptible manifestations, can be interpreted in terms
of activity. Pleasure, acute or massive, appears as the result of a
stimulus, which, owing to a happy proportion between its intensity and
the functional capacity of the organ, has modified the bodily functions
in such a way as to produce manifestations of energy. Pain, acute or
massive, appears as the result of a stimulus, possibly of the same
kind, which, owing to a disproportion arising from its own greater
intensity or the smaller functional capacity in the organ, has called
forth a functional inhibition—that is to say, that kind of activity
which is manifested to us as an arrest of energy.

It would be too sanguine to expect the real nature of pleasure and
pain to be exhaustively defined in any formula such as the above.
From a theoretical point of view grave objections may undoubtedly be
raised against Marshall’s theory as well as against every general
interpretation of emotional states. It may even be admitted, and we
desire to admit it as soon as possible, that in several cases it seems
extremely difficult to derive the feeling-tone of even the simplest
sensations from the proportion between “energy given out and energy
received.”[52] But since, as far as we can see, similar difficulties
meet us in the application of every existing emotional theory, for
the present we must consider the constructions of Mr. Marshall,
notwithstanding their speculative and necessarily unsafe character, as
affording us the most consistent explanation of the hedonic phenomena.
In an earlier work, _Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_ (A Preliminary
Study for a Philosophy of Art), I have tried to discuss and refute
some of the arguments which can be adduced against this theory. In
the present work such a theoretic digression would lead us too far
away from the main subject. For a right understanding of the relation
between feeling and “expressional” movements it is not necessary,
we believe, to adopt exclusively any one of the emotional theories.
We shall be quite content if it is admitted that Mr. Marshall’s
interpretation affords us a scheme or formula by the aid of which
we can account, if not for the nature, at least for the external
manifestations of our feelings.

In applying his definitions to the various kinds of pleasure and pain,
Mr. Marshall has recourse to three important principles, viz. the
limited amount of energy which our system is capable of developing at
any given moment, the storage of surplus supplies of nourishment, and
the transference of energy from one organ to another. By referring
to these principles he has been able to bring under his explanation
those feelings which seem to correspond not to “activities,” but to
“states.”[53]

As is well known, Hamilton had already pointed out the important,
though unsuspected, element of activity which is involved in our
enjoyment of _dolce far niente_.[54] But with the physiology at his
command he could scarcely have explained why rest after heavy work is
always accompanied by eminently pleasurable feelings. If it be assumed,
however, that in the case of psychical effort, _e.g._, the call upon
our limited fund of energy has reduced the vegetative functions to
inactivity, and that this inactivity has caused a storage of nutritive
supply, then it is self-evident that the vegetative functions, as soon
as the one-sided effort has ceased, must discharge their surplus in
movements of a pleasurable character.

The pain arising from restricted activity can equally be explained in
terms of movement. If we believe that our system has a limited amount
of energy which—as long as life is maintained—must necessarily be
active in some direction or other, then we shall also understand that
anything which closes the natural and usual outlet of this energy will
give rise to activities in related organs, the nutritive state of which
does not present the conditions of pleasurable function. Mr. Marshall
has tried to indicate the details of the transition by which inactivity
in one organ causes excessive activity in other organs. His description
of the “gorging of the nutritive channels,” “the calling for aid of the
disabled elements,” etc., is, however, too figurative and poetical to
be of any importance in a psychological argument.[55] Taken as a vague
and necessarily coarse metaphor, this physiological image may, however,
illustrate a process which perhaps can never be exactly analysed, but
which is nevertheless familiar to everybody. No one who has experienced
in any higher degree the diffused sensation of gnawing inactivity can
doubt the active element in this corroding feeling. One seems to feel
how the checked and thwarted impulses devouringly turn themselves
inward. Poetical literature is full of passionate outcries against the
tortures which imposed inaction inflicts on active spirits; and modern
autobiographies give us pathetic examples of the sufferings of those
whose intellectual activity has been diverted from outward aims to
internal analysis. The candid confessions of Amiel and Kierkegaard show
the inevitable necessity with which mental energy, if arrested in its
natural course, finds itself an outlet in destructive activity. This
truth had already been expressed in simple and drastic form in Logau’s
old epigram:—

    Ein Mühlstein und ein Menschenherz wird stets herumgetrieben.
    Wenn beides nicht zu reiben hat, wird beides selbst zerrieben.

The displacement of mental attention corresponding to the transference
of energy from one organ to another in the inevitable search for a
channel of outlet causes arrested activity to be felt as an unbearable
massive pain; but this process implies at the same time a possibility
of relief. If the sufferings of restriction can be considered as
brought about by arrested impulses which have turned inwards, then it
is evident that any outward activity may overcome the obstruction.
Pleasure can perhaps not be achieved before the checked organ resumes
its functions; but even a vicarious activity in some related organ may
relieve the pain. Hence the diffused, undirected movements by which
we instinctively try to get rid of a feeling of restriction. Every
high-strung emotional state which has not yet found its appropriate
expression affords an instance of this sensation. Exalted delight
therefore often manifests itself in ecstatic dances and songs, which,
properly speaking, rather relieve an incipient pain than express a
pleasure. Violent movements act as unconscious expedients by which the
organism restores itself to its normal balance.

A similar instinct ought, one would expect, to operate in sensations
of acute pain. In point of fact, an obscure consciousness of the
limitation of functional energy, or, to put it in psychological
terms, of attentive power, leads us to seek and find relief from pain
in violent movement. Some of the frantic dances of savage tribes
undoubtedly serve to deaden the sufferings inflicted by ritual
tortures. But it is, of course, only in exceptional cases that these
anæsthetic expedients are intentionally resorted to. As a rule they are
to be considered as a radiation of nervous tension, and are so little
conscious that we can scarcely even call them instinctive. Besides all
the motor manifestations which thus follow upon a sensation of severe
pain in almost direct physiological sequence, some pantomimic activity
of defence or avoidance will generally be called forth by the notion of
an objective source of pain. Owing to associations derived from earlier
similar states, this reaction may often appear even when there is no
definite object which can be assigned as the cause of the feeling.
Among primitive people the pantomime of pain undoubtedly has its ground
in a mythological conception of the nature of feeling. Pain is regarded
as a concrete thing which the body may be capable of shaking off or
avoiding. Crude as it may seem, this illusion is so closely bound up
with our instinctive reactions that even the most enlightened man
can never completely emancipate himself from its influence. There is
thus nearly always an intellectual factor which co-operates with the
physical tendency towards energetic reaction to pain.

Thus pain, notwithstanding its inhibitive character, may act,
especially when it is acute, as a motor incitement. Hence the curious
cases of favourable medical effects produced by severe physical
suffering, which may serve not only as a distraction of the attention,
but also as a positive stimulation of sinking vitality. Hence also the
enhanced intellectual activity which often follows upon pain.[56] There
was perhaps more malignity than truth in the remark of Michelet that
Flaubert might imperil his talent by curing his boils;[57] but there
are unquestionable instances to prove that wounds and acute diseases
have exercised a powerful exciting influence on certain artistic
temperaments.

All these stimulating effects of pain must naturally be taken into
account in every emotional theory. But they can by no means be
adduced, as Fechner thinks, as an argument against the definition
which we have already given.[58] Reactions to pain follow, indeed,
so immediately upon the sensation, that they cannot be separated in
time from its proper expression. But it must always be remembered
that the activities, whether of writhing under the influence of
pain or of combating it, are secondary manifestations by which the
feeling-tone is gradually weakened. Whether the stimulating effects
appear at the very moment of impression or only when the sensation has
become fully conscious, pain is always, we believe, at its keenest
when the outward development of energy is lowest. If the notion
“expression” is conceived in its strictest sense, _i.e._ as the
physiological counterpart of the emotional state, then pain has only
one expression—inhibition.

With regard to states of pleasure it is more difficult to make any
distinction between primary and secondary manifestations. Every new
movement is a new expression of the same feeling which—as long as
fatigue does not set up its peculiar pain—is only enhanced by these
repeated “somatic resonances.” If pleasure is originated by the
increased function of one individual organ, then this stimulation
must, owing to the solidarity of the functions, gradually extend
over wider areas in the system. The more numerous the organs which
take part in the activity, the more numerous also are our sensations
of function, and the greater the gain of our pleasure in richness
and variety. An undefined feeling of vigour, assurance, or power
can only acquire distinctness and intensity by expressing itself in
some mode of physical or mental activity. But while stimulation is
thus directly connected with the feeling-tone of pleasurable states,
it must be admitted, on the other hand, that—as has been remarked
above—associative influences also contribute towards enhancing their
active manifestations. By these secondary motor-impulses, however,
the original feeling is only increased. It can therefore be said
that pleasure feeds and nurtures itself by expression. Pain, on the
contrary, increases in strength in the same degree as the inhibition
extends over the organism. But it can only be weakened by active
manifestations. Movements, as we have shown, deliver us from the
massive, indistinct pains of restriction as well as mitigate our acute
sufferings.

The life-preserving tendency which, under the feeling of pleasure,
leads us to movements which intensify the sensation and make it more
distinct for consciousness, compels us in pain to seek for relief and
deliverance in violent motor discharge. In either case the activity is
called expressional, and it seems difficult to avoid this equivocal
usage. But it is indispensable to make a strict distinction between
the expression which operates in the direction of the initial feeling
itself, and the expression by which this feeling is weakened.

This distinction will appear with greater clearness in the following
chapter, where we shall apply the laws of expression to the complex
emotional states. Then it will also be possible for us to point out
some æsthetic result of the psychological survey which perhaps may seem
for the moment a departure from our proper subject.




                              CHAPTER IV

                             THE EMOTIONS


The discussion of complex emotional states on which we enter in the
present chapter will be subject to the same reservation as was our
previous discussion of simple sensation-feeling. It is not proposed
to attempt a definitive explanation of the _nature_ of emotion,
nor even to criticise the various emotion-theories which have been
advanced in psychological literature. For the purposes of an æsthetic
investigation we are only concerned with the external aspects, the
outward manifestations, of mental states. We need not therefore dilate
upon the controversies as to the exact relation between simple feeling
and emotion. It is enough for us that all authors—those who consider
pain and pleasure as elements _sui generis_ as well as those who count
them among sensations or emotions—agree in emphasising the prominent
hedonic element which enters into all our emotions. Starting from this
universally recognised fact, we shall try to explain the impulse to
expression, as it appears in complex emotions, by the same laws which
we deduced from an examination of simple hedonic states.

The legitimacy of such a course will scarcely be contested by any one
who admits the vital and necessary connection between emotional states
and movement-sensations. And in point of fact, this connection does
not seem to be denied by many modern psychologists. There is indeed
much controversy as to the best mode of formulating the well-known
theory due to James and Lange, and there is also much to discuss in
its general theoretic aspect. But the observation on which this theory
was based by James, viz. that it is impossible for us to imagine any
emotion which is not connected with feelings of bodily symptoms, seems
nowadays to be pretty safe against attack. Before and after James,
the fundamental importance of bodily changes has been acknowledged by
almost all authors who have specially studied the emotional states. We
need only refer to Bain, Ribot, Féré, Paulhan, and Godfernaux.[59] Even
Professor Stout, who on general grounds takes exception to the views
of James, leaves unassailed the thesis from which the latter starts in
his chapter on the emotions.[60] And it is even somewhat superfluous to
adduce all these authorities in support of a fact which must have been
noted by every one who pays any attention to his own mental states. We
never experience any intense emotion, such as fear, anger, or sorrow,
without at the same time experiencing some distinct sensation of
change in our functions of respiration and circulation, as well as in
the activities of our voluntary muscles. In the case of emotions of
slight intensity, where no changes of this character are perceptible,
we are justified in assuming that they do nevertheless occur, only on
a much smaller scale, and possibly in different organs. The clinical
and experimental researches of medical science, as well as experiments
undertaken in psychological laboratories, tend to prove that all ideas,
even of the most abstract kind, are accompanied by modifications of
organic activity, similar to, but weaker than, those which accompany
the simple sensations. It is only natural, therefore, to conclude that
the feeling-element in emotions and sentiments, as well as in simple
pain and pleasure, is correlated with the quality—stimulating or
inhibitive—and intensity of these modifications. All hedonic states,
whether called forth directly by a simple physiological stimulus, or
indirectly by the mediation of perceptions, memories, and ideas, can
thus, in so far as they are feelings, be considered as essentially
alike. The complete emotion, such as joy or anger, with all its
elements of thought and conscious or unconscious volition, is of course
something quite different from the simple feeling-tone of mere pleasure
or pain. Physiological psychology does not, as its opponents maintain,
assimilate gratifications of the sense of taste to æsthetic enjoyment
or religious exaltation. We allow _rank_ to a sentiment in virtue
of the mental conceptions by which it is justified in the breast of
the person who feels it. But the _strength_ of such a sentiment, _as
feeling_, we deem to be proportioned to the organic changes by which
enthusiasm and devotion, just as much as sensual pleasure, are always
accompanied. We do not assert that these organic changes are always
identical in kind. In the simplest forms of hedonic sensation—sensation
proper—they have their main equivalent in changes of the vegetative
functions; in the emotions they are accompanied by movements of our
voluntary muscles; and in the sentiments they may correspond to an
activity which takes place chiefly in the organ of thought. And from
these differences arise other important differences in duration as well
as in intensity of the pleasure-pain. But all these various limitations
cannot modify the essential fact, which is, that pleasure is always
connected with an enhancement, and pain with a depression, of the vital
functions.

For a satisfactory explanation of our emotions it would no doubt be
desirable to have all the complicated physiological concomitants
reduced to simple terms of functional enhancement and functional
arrest. Such a reduction can, however, be undertaken only in a few
favourable cases. We can easily see, for instance, that in pride and
humiliation a series of perceptions and ideas have brought about
conditions of facilitated and checked activity similar to those which,
in sensational pleasure-pain, are created by simple physiological
stimuli.[61] We may also agree with Lehmann when he endeavours to
prove that the pain a child experiences when its mother leaves its
bedside can be reduced to a sensation of arrested activity.[62] And
we may in the same way explain our own feelings after losses which,
from our point of view, are more serious, as largely due to the fact
that an occasion of activity for our senses, thoughts, or bodily
powers has been suddenly withdrawn. But it would be too laborious to
enter upon such an analysis of all our compound emotions, and it is
also superfluous. Even when the organic conditions of pleasure and
pain cannot be detected among the intricate mass of intellectual and
volitional elements which make up what we can observe of an emotion,
we must still, from analogy, conclude that some kind of functional
enhancement or arrest corresponds to the feeling-tone.

Seeing, then, that what we may call “pure feeling” remains the same
in all possible combinations, we must expect to meet with the same
phenomena in connection with the manifestations of the higher emotions
and sentiments, as those already described in case of simple pain or
pleasure. It is true that in fully formed anger, joy, contempt, and
so on, the tendency to expression for expression’s sake—as when a
child laughs or dances for mere joy—is seldom found pure and unmixed.
But even in such complex states we may in the abstract distinguish
the impulse directly and inherently connected with the physiological
change—the impulse which tends _automatically_ to bring out the tone of
pleasure with more prominence or to relieve the tone of pain—from all
the conscious and volitional activities by which the external cause of
the feeling is either approached or avoided. We have only to remember
that, as was the case with sensation-feelings, those intentional
movements which are directly or by virtue of association connected
with an emotion will always work in the same direction as the purely
automatic expression.

With regard to anger, for instance, we can in theory, at all events,
distinguish the activity which follows as a purely physiological
reaction upon the initial inhibition, and which therefore is quite
undirected by any idea of attacking an enemy, from the conscious
reaction by which we strive with all our powers to overcome and
annihilate a real or imaginary foe. But we know that both these
kinds of expression produce similar mental effects. Whether we
concentrate our attention on the element of pure feeling and its
accompanying activities, or on the intermixture of intellectual
and volitional elements by which the emotion is distinguished from
simple pleasure-pain, we shall thus find that active manifestations
always enhance the positive tone of feeling, which is in itself the
counterpart of a functional enhancement, and relieve the negative tone,
which is the counterpart of functional arrest.

To prove this assertion with regard to all the different emotions
would mean an unnecessary repetition of the arguments adduced in the
preceding chapter. We need therefore only dwell on a few individual
cases in which the effects of expression, owing to the complex nature
of all fully developed emotions, are subject to misinterpretation. It
has, for instance, often been contended in psychological literature
that pleasurable emotions lose in strength in the same degree as
they are expressed. Mr. Spencer, who finds the physiological basis
of all emotion in nervous tension, has tried to prove that joy is
always strongest when most restrained. But the argument he adduces is
by no means unimpeachable. He says that people who show the finest
appreciation of humour are often capable of saying and doing the most
laughable things with the utmost gravity.[63] In this instance joy
has, however, been confounded with the sense of the comic, which is of
course a purely intellectual gift, and which does not even presuppose
a cheerful disposition. The less the expenditure of nervous force on
outward activity, the greater is the efficiency with which the work of
thought can be carried on.[64] There is thus a physiological reason
why he who laughs least utters the best jokes. But all the fools whose
mouths overflow with laughter (_risus abundat in ore stultorum_) may
no doubt often be happier than the most talented humourist. No sane man
would say that Swift was happy.

It is, however, undeniable that even joy gradually decreases if it
is allowed an unimpeded outlet. But that is often a result of bodily
fatigue, which makes thought as well as feeling impossible. Pleasure
may also increase _qua_ feeling, if its most outward manifestations
are controlled. But hereby the activity has only, as Spencer himself
remarks, been directed into new channels.[65] The motor impulses
reflect themselves inwards and accumulate when their outlet is stopped.
From bodily movements, which are its simplest and most natural
expression, joy may thus be diverted into the region of thought. When
a savage has attained so high a state of development as to be able to
control the impulse to dance and yell for joy, the first dithyramb has
been composed.

It is impossible for us to estimate the relative importance of internal
and external activity. All we can say is that a joy, the outward
expressions of which are controlled, probably gains in durability. But
on the other hand it is possible that a joy which has been allowed a
free discharge, in the very moment of expression is stronger _qua_
feeling. If the motor impulses find no outlet in any direction, the
emotional state will, as has already been pointed out, become more and
more affected with elements of pain.

When the physiological counterpart of an emotion takes the form of
an inhibition, the feeling-tone will of course gain in intensity in
the same degree as wider and wider areas of activity come under the
influence of the arrest. This law can also be observed in the course
of development of all pain-emotions. Sorrow, despair, humiliation, and
so on, are relatively mild as long as the inhibition is restricted to
the voluntary muscles. They acquire their full and proper strength
as feeling only when the involuntary activities take part in the
functional disturbance. And we can often notice in ourselves how, in
the same degree as a painful emotion increases, the inhibition cuts
its way deeper and deeper into the organism.[66] Humiliation, which of
all emotions is the most hopelessly and irredeemably painful, is in
its higher degrees always accompanied by functional changes which make
themselves felt even in our digestive organs. Literature, to which in
questions of emotional psychology we must apply for the information
which no experiment can supply, proves that it is hard to swallow. It
has a bitter taste, and is sickening even in purely physical sense.[67]
The greatest grief, on the other hand, that man has been able to
imagine manifests itself physiologically as a complete internal as well
as external paralysis, such as is suggested by the Greek myth of the
sorrowing mother turned into stone.

The progress of functional inhibition from organ to organ and the
accompanying increase of the pain-emotion does of course generally
take place without the co-operation of volition. But the increase
of an incipient pain-sentiment can also be facilitated by voluntary
efforts. As Professor James remarks, we may effectively strengthen a
mood of sadness if we only consistently arrest the activity of all
the organs which are under the control of our will.[68] And it is
well known that much is possible in the way of working up feelings
of melancholy. It may seem somewhat strange that the cultivation of
such painful states has attained so high a development in man. But
the apparent paradox is solved if we direct our attention to the
secondary tones of pleasure which can always be derived from artificial
moods of suffering. Sentimental reflection is able to extract from
them a peculiar satisfaction which is highly appreciated by certain
temperaments. We need only refer to the literature of romanticism,
which gives us most instructive instances of pride in sensibility.
Another kind of enjoyment is attained when persons who consider
themselves unfairly treated by cruel fortune deliberately feed upon
their own sufferings. As Spencer has shrewdly pointed out, they will
infallibly derive a pleasurable sensation of their own value when
contrasting their fate with the happiness which they consider their
due.[69] Melancholy people, on the other hand, may perhaps be inclined
to make themselves as helpless and unfortunate as possible for the
sake of experiencing both sides of that “love of the helpless”[70]
which, according to Spencer, is the most primordial form of altruistic
feeling. The expressions and pantomimes of sadness often strike us as
a kind of self-caressing in which the sufferer, by division of his own
personality, enjoys the double pleasure of giving and receiving.

According to the most consistent terminology, this tendency to
enhance feeling by voluntary co-operation with functional inhibition
ought perhaps to be considered as the characteristic expression of
painful emotion. It is, however, as has already been pointed out in
our treatment of sensation-feeling, more in conformity with ordinary
usage—and also with etymology—to apply the word expression to those
active, outward manifestations by which the inhibition is relieved.
There can be no inconvenience in doing so if we only keep constantly
in mind the distinction between the expression which enhances and the
expression which relieves. As long as these two notions are confounded,
a consistent explanation of emotional states is quite impossible. The
contradictions in Professor James’ brilliant chapter on the emotions
furnish us with a ready proof of this impossibility. If he had based
his theory upon a close discrimination of either class of expression,
as they can be distinguished in simple sensational feeling, he would
probably not have contended that sorrow is increased by sobbing,[71]
while admitting in another passage that “dry and shrunken sorrow” is
more painful than any “crying fit.”[72]

It is, however, impossible to deny that sighing, sobbing, twisting
the hands, and other active manifestations are often effectively
used, by actors, for example, as means for working up despair or
sorrows.[73] But it seems to us indubitable that these movements when
they succeed in creating the real feeling do so by help of association.
A pain-emotion which has been called into existence by such dramatic
mechanism is therefore seldom quite genuine. Real sorrow, hate, or
anger, as pain-feelings, are on their physiological side much more
deeply seated than these surface expressions, which, properly speaking,
are merely a reproduction of the usual reactions upon the primary
feeling. They are therefore not to be easily stirred up by aid of
mimetic action.

It may perhaps be contended that these remarks apply only to
the artificial creation of pain-emotion. When under the sway of
veritable sorrow we undoubtedly feel as if the mental state were
really intensified during its expression by the direct influence of
the muscular activities, which constitute the sighing, sobbing, or
crying. As far as the compound emotion is concerned, this observation
is unquestionably correct. Sorrow, with all its intellectual and
volitional elements, may become more distinct for consciousness the
more it is actively expressed. But the pain itself, which constitutes
the primary and initial state of this emotion, has by no means been
increased. On the contrary, a crying fit, for instance, as even
Professor James admits, may be accompanied by a kind of excitement
which has a peculiar tone of pungent pleasure.[74]

The same process can be observed in the course of all the so-called
pain-emotions. During active expression, while the general mental state
increases in definiteness, the purely “algedonic” element of pain is
gradually weakened or changed. Anger, which begins with an inhibition
and a vascular contraction, to which,[75] on the mental side,
corresponds a feeling of intense pain, is thus in its active stage a
decidedly pleasurable emotion.[76] Fear, which in its initial stage is
paralysing and depressing, often changes in tone when the first shock
has been relieved by motor reaction.[77] And to some extent the same
may be said even of despair. In every pain-emotion where there is a
development of active energy involved in the reaction upon the initial
feeling, the tone of this feeling is apt to undergo some change owing
to the influence of this activity.

This circumstance explains why expression for expression’s sake as a
life-preserving principle occupies so important a place in the life
of man. But it also accounts for another phenomenon which, although
not directly connected with the expressional impulse, is æsthetically
so important that it cannot properly be passed over in this work. We
refer to the apparent paradox that anger, fear, sorrow, notwithstanding
their distinctly painful initial stage, are often not only not avoided,
but even deliberately sought. Taken in connection with those perhaps
even more curious cases, in which sensation-feelings of pain are
intentionally provoked, this apparent inversion of the normal course
constitutes one of the most important problems in emotional psychology.
The question of such “luxuries of grief,” or, to use a more appropriate
German phrase, “Die Wonne des Leids,” is, however, so complicated that
its treatment will require a chapter to itself.




                               CHAPTER V

                         THE ENJOYMENT OF PAIN


We have pointed out that enjoyment can be derived by sentimental
reflection on moods of sadness. Such refined forms of the “luxury of
grief” presuppose a certain intellectual development and a tendency
to introspection, which cannot possibly be assumed in primitive man.
But as the active forms of the so-called pain-emotions are highly
appreciated—we may even say indulged in as enjoyments—by the lower
tribes of man, there must evidently be some more immediate cause of
this delight. And we are the more tempted to look for this cause in the
emotional process itself, by the fact that even bodily pains, which
do not admit of any sentimental interpretation, may be deliberately
excited.

We remarked in our treatment of the simple emotional elements, that
pleasure and pain can in no case be estimated by any absolute measure.
Now that we have to find some explanation of the delight in pain, which
applies to purely physical as well as to mental pain, we begin by
admitting that the relative character of feeling probably accounts for
many instances in which the pain is merely apparent. The same external
stimulus which acts on one individual with hypernormal strength, and
therefore evokes pain, may in the case of another individual who
has duller senses, produce a weaker impression, and thus call forth
a pleasurable reaction. The taste and smell anomalies of hysterical
patients afford us good examples of such abnormal pleasure. And, on
the other hand, there are plenty of instances, too familiar to be
enumerated, in which an impression which a sick person would call
painful brings pleasure to a healthy one.

Again, the power of receiving pleasurable sensations from strong
stimuli may often be increased by exercise. Mr. Marshall has applied
his psycho-physiological principles to the interpretation of
these “acquired pleasure-gettings” and though he perhaps does not
exhaustively and convincingly explain the process, he at least gives
a graphic and clear account of its most probable course. He thinks
that a hypernormal stimulus indirectly increases the blood-supply to
the stimulated organ. This organ will therefore, if the operation of
the stimulus is not too prolonged, store up some portion of unused
nutritive force during the subsequent repose. And thus, if the same
stimulus is shortly afterwards repeated, the organ will be able to
respond with greater facility and intensity, _i.e._ react under the
conditions of pleasurable reaction. In this way Marshall accounts for
the classic instances of acquired liking for olives and tobacco.[78]

It is probable that a similar influence of repeated exercise may
also operate in the department of compound emotions. Lehmann, who
explains the transformation of originally painful impressions into
pleasurable ones in a somewhat different way, viz. by his law of
“the indispensability of accustomed things” refers to this law
those instances in which persons who have had many troubles grow so
accustomed to them, that in a moment of ease they feel a kind of
loss.[79] The validity of this law will be recognised by every one who
has any opportunity of observing the vaguely and weakly unpleasant
feeling which sometimes appears when we are suddenly liberated
from some pursuing anxiety. And the indispensability of accustomed
sensations may impel persons to create new mental pains or worries to
replace the old ones.

Yet the mere craving for customary sensations cannot explain those
cases of genuine luxury in grief in which pain-sensations and
pain-emotions are sought precisely because they are painful. But if we
take into account the powerful stimulating effect which is produced by
acute pain, we may easily understand why people submit to momentary
unpleasantness for the sake of enjoying the subsequent excitement. This
motive leads to the deliberate creation not only of pain-sensations,
but also of emotions in which pain enters as an element. The violent
activity which is involved in the reaction against fear, and still
more in that against anger, affords us a sensation of pleasurable
excitement which is well worth the cost of the passing unpleasantness.
It is, moreover, notorious that some persons have developed a peculiar
art of making the initial pain of anger so transient that they can
enjoy the active elements in it with almost undivided delight. Such
an accomplishment is far more difficult in the case of sorrow. The
reactions are here seldom allowed so free a course as to be able to
change the feeling-tone of the state. Moreover, the remembrance of the
objective cause will always tend to reawaken the original feeling with
its accompanying inhibition. Besides, a man of culture and refinement
is generally deterred by a kind of respect for his own emotional life
from artificially stirring up states of sorrow for his own enjoyment.
This reluctance, however, does not seem to exist in lower stages of
development. The crying feasts of the Maoris and the Todas—which afford
a striking parallel to the ceremonial wailings of ancient Greece—are
no doubt, whatever their ritual significance may be, attended with
a kind of pleasure.[80] By seizing on some real or fictitious cause
for grief—the death of a Linos or an Adonis—the participants succeed,
we imagine, in creating a state of sorrow in which the active and
stimulating elements outweigh the pain.

However barbarous this kind of amusement may seem to us, it is by no
means certain that we have completely outgrown such pleasures. The
delight in witnessing the performance of a tragedy undoubtedly involves
the enjoyment of a borrowed pain, which, by unconscious sympathetic
imitation, we make partially our own.[81] And the same phenomenon
appears in a yet cruder form in the custom, so general among the lower
classes of most countries, of visiting funerals and similar ceremonies
where sorrow can be contemplated and shared. Even civilised man is thus
able to enjoy the pleasure which may be connected with emotions of
sorrow and despair, at least in second-hand reproduction.

It is scarcely necessary to go through all the various emotional
states in order to prove that every one of them, if it can _per se_ be
enjoyed (in nature or art), is either primarily or by its reactions
connected with an increase of outward activity. But we must point
out that the pleasure derived from this motor excitement is often
still further enhanced by the agency of an intellectual element which
is simpler than sentimental reflection, and does not presuppose any
tendency towards introspection. In pain as in pleasure, in suffering
as in voluptuousness, we attain a heightened and enriched sensation
of life. The more we love life, the more must we also enjoy this
sensation, even if it be called into existence by pain. Lessing,
who cannot possibly be called morbid, confesses to this taste in an
interesting letter written to Mendelssohn: “Darinn sind wir doch wohl
einig, l.F., dass alle Leidenschaften entweder heftige Begierden oder
heftige Verabscheuengen sind? Auch darinn: dass wir uns bei jeder
heftigen Begierde oder Verabscheuung, eines grösser Grads unserer
Realität bewusst sind und dass dieses Bewusstsein nicht anders als
angenehm sein kann? Folglich sind alle Leidenschaften, auch die
allerunangenehmsten, als Leidenschaften angenehm.”[82] (“We are agreed
in this, my dear friend, that all passions are either vehement cravings
or vehement loathings, and also that in every vehement craving or
loathing we acquire an increased consciousness of our reality, and
that this consciousness cannot but be pleasurable. Consequently, all
our passions, even the most painful, are, as passions, pleasurable.”)
And Helvetius has expressed almost the same idea: “Nous souhaiterons
donc, par des impressions toujours nouvelles, être à chaque instant
avertis de notre existence, parceque chacun de ces avertissements est
pour nous un plaisir.”[83] (“Accordingly, we shall desire, by means of
constantly renewed impressions, to be at every moment reminded of our
existence, because each of these reminders is for us a pleasure.”) For
the sake of this “avertissement” of existence, individuals of intense
vital temperament, like Richard Jefferies and Maryia Bashkirtseff, have
positively loved their very sufferings.[84]

It is evident that pain as a sign of life and function may be
especially welcome when the vital sensation has for any reason become
weakened. The self-woundings of the heathen and Christian saints,
although no doubt fully justified to the sufferers themselves by
religious motives, may thus have had their innermost unconscious
motive in an endeavour to overcome that anæsthesia which is so
usual an accompaniment of hysterical disturbances.[85] It is hard
to believe that the tortures which they inflict upon themselves are
really felt as neutral or pleasurable. But we can easily understand
that such torture, although more or less painful, may afford a kind
of satisfaction by compelling the slow and dull senses to function.
Professor Lange has in his work on the emotions laid special stress
upon this point. “It is a condition of our well-being,” he says,
“that our sensorial centres should be in a certain degree of activity
called forth by the impressions which reach them through the sensorial
nerves from the outside. If from some cause or other—for instance,
from a decrease in the functional powers of these centres—there
arises an insensibility, anæsthesia, then we feel a longing to force
them to their usual activity by addressing to them an abnormally
strong appeal, or, in other words, by intensifying the external
impressions and thereby neutralising the insensibility.”[86] This
principle has, indeed, as applied by Lange to the expressions of
anger, been mercilessly ridiculed by Wundt.[87] But it seems to us
that the observation itself can scarcely be contested. Whether we
explain it as a case of the indispensability of the accustomed or as
the result of some peculiar yearning for life—a soul-desire, as Mr.
Jefferies would have called it—a deficient consciousness of function
is in most cases distinctly unpleasant. And, on the other hand, it
seems as if an increased consciousness of function were _per se_
pleasurable. It is of course difficult to prove by exact argument the
existence of a feeling which can be observed only as the innermost
concealed motive of our life. But on as strong evidence as can ever
be adduced on matters of emotional life, we may believe that in every
conscious life there operates a dim instinctive craving for fuller
and greater consciousness, or, if the expression be preferred, for
the most complete self-realisation. Happiness itself has been defined
by a philosopher so little inclined to mysticism as Mr. Brinton, as
“the increasing consciousness of self.”[88] It is therefore easy to
understand why, when this consciousness has been blunted by some
cause or other, we may even long for suffering and pain as a means
of escaping the dulness, emptiness, and darkness of insensibility.
It may seem to be a disturbance of all normal instincts that pain—an
element hostile to vital activity—can thus be preferred to a state the
unpleasantness of which is only diffuse. But we have to remember that
the absence of sensation and function frightens us by its similarity to
what we fear more than pain.

The sufferings of insensibility, this highest possible form of tedium,
which—if we are to judge from the descriptions in literature and
poetry—may in themselves be unbearable enough, must needs be unusually
keen in individuals who are given up to philosophic reflection. The
feeling of inanity which is caused by a suspense of vital sensations
is apt to spread itself over the whole field of sense-experience.[89]
In default of strong impressions, with their subsequent reactions, we
may lose the sense not only of our own existence, but also of that of
the external world.[90] The relatively neutral evidence of our higher
senses does not afford us the same assurance of reality as is given
by grosser impressions, which affect us more directly in the way of
pleasure or pain. On purely physiological grounds there may thus be
produced a morbid conception of the universe which, having neither ego
nor non-ego to rely on, lacks the conviction either of subjective or
objective existence. From this vertiginous inanity, which must bring
every philosophic temperament into despair, life delivers us by the
same means which Molière uses to confute the Pyrrhonists. Pain is the
most convincing reality we can imagine. It may therefore, even when it
is not deliberately sought for, afford a welcome support to thought.

                            “Suffice it thee
    Thy pain is a reality.”
                  (TENNYSON, “The Two Voices”).

In this connection, however, we have not to dwell on the philosophical
importance of pain. We are here only concerned with its significance
for the immediate sense of life. And in this respect we believe that an
artificial creation of pain may play some part not only in anger, but
in the expression of all high-strung emotions. It is well known that
the orgiastic state of mind, whether originally caused by religious
exaltation or by erotic delirium, may often, when it has reached its
highest stage, express itself in self-laceration. These facts are no
doubt difficult to interpret. But it seems justifiable to assume that a
tendency towards the creating of pain-sensations may have been derived
from the emotional process itself. Explained in this way, orgiastic
self-tortures may be adduced as the most remarkable proofs of this
desire for an enhanced sense of life which lies at the bottom of all
our appetence.

However energetically strong emotions may accentuate our existence, and
however deeply we may enjoy the “realisation of ourselves” which we
find in the violent excitement accompanying them, high-strung states
are naturally bound to be followed by exhaustion and stupor. And thus
even the intoxication of life, this most powerful of sensations, sooner
or later passes its climax and sinks into dull insensibility. The lower
the function by the incitement of which the exaltation is produced,
the greater probably is its orgiastic power. But its duration is also
so much the shorter. A wild dance, for instance, invariably ends in
impotent prostration, during which the power of function and sensation
is completely exhausted. As long as the mental desire for increased
excitement is unsatisfied, this state must be distinctly disagreeable.
Hence all the frenetic manifestations by which man, when raging in
insatiable exaltation, strives to awake and rouse his failing powers of
enjoyment.

In the whole domain of comparative psychology there can scarcely
be adduced an example which throws so much light on the orgiastic
state of mind as the Bacchanal frenzy. And the descriptions of this
“Dionysischer Zustand” which are to be found in classic literature
give us the most complete idea of the various expedients by which the
devotee tries to maintain and increase his state of exaltation in spite
of the growing tendency to relaxation. By noise, roaring, and loud
cries, by frenetic dance and wild actions, the “Maenads” strive to
preserve and recover the fading sense of life, which ever baffles their
exertions. And as the last, infallible means of excitement, resorted
to when all other stimulations have proved unable to stir up the
dulled senses, we may explain the tortures which the partly insensible
Bacchante inflicts upon herself. “Suum Bacchis non sentit saucia
vulnus.”[91]

There are various kinds of orgiastic exaltation connected with
self-torture—as that of the tarantella dancers, of the dervishes, of
the shamans, and others—in which the creation of pain-sensations may
be explained as a desperate device for enhancing the intensity of
the emotional state. Acute pain often makes it possible to overcome
momentarily the exhaustion or the dulness which unfits us for work.
And it is evident that pain may produce a similar excitement when
we require an increase of energy, not for the sake of obtaining the
greatest possible result from a working activity, but for the sake of
extracting the greatest possible enjoyment out of an emotional state.

But if this interpretation be admitted as possible, there will be
ample room for discussion as to its application to individual cases.
For it is to be remembered that even pain may fulfil the task of
relieving a nervous tension. In cases of bodily suffering counter
irritation may thus bring about a wholesome diversion of the attention
from an otherwise unbearable pain.[92] And it is unquestionable that
self-inflicted lacerations during violent emotion often subserve the
same purpose. When a savage scarifies himself on receiving bad news,
or at a funeral feast, his action is an instinctive effort to procure
relief from the overpowering feelings.[93] That he is not simply
performing a sacrificial rite,[94] but is merely seeking the relief
which experience has taught him may be afforded by pain as well as by
the subsequent exhaustion (especially from loss of blood), is proved
by the fact that the same expedient is employed in order to overcome
humiliation or bodily pain.[95] It is not stimulation, but a lulling of
the senses, which is here aimed at.

It must also be admitted that even the other orgiastic manifestations
may serve as purely cathartic means of relieving emotional pressure. It
is, as has already been remarked, impossible to decide in individual
cases whether an activity of expression—a dance, for instance—serves to
enhance a pleasurable feeling or to relieve a pain. Suffering, sorrow,
and despair may often, in their outward reactions, borrow the forms of
expression which are usually connected with joy. Thus frenetic games
and dances are often met with on occasions when we should least of all
expect them, as, for instance, in time of famine, epidemic, or war.[96]
Such paradoxical manifestations, in which an overstrained despair
attempts to obtain some kind of relief, are externally not to be
distinguished from the genuine expression of joy. On the other hand, an
abnormally strong emotion, which is primarily caused by the objective
conditions of pleasure, may in its excess be perceived as a pain. Joy
itself can thus be felt as an oppressive burden, which we try with all
our power to get rid of. The motor discharges, by which we seek relief
from such a “Noth der Fülle und der Überfülle,” can, however, only
indirectly offer us any real deliverance. A wild dance, for instance,
will inevitably accentuate the original feeling as a conscious state,
and thereby increase its intensity. But with this increase the craving
for relief will also become stronger. As long as expression is unable
to satisfy the ever-growing nervous tension, there must remain an
element of “never enough” in the orgiastic exaltation. It is only when
repeated solicitation has brought on bodily exhaustion that a real
release is attained.

There is no doubt that such a relief-bringing exhaustion was the
ultimate aim of all those exalted manifestations to which the poor
tarantuli and the Vitus dancers abandoned themselves. But the problem
presented by the similarity between the pathological despair which
constitutes the initial stage of such epidemic mental disorders, and
the oppressive feeling of joy whose expression has been thwarted, is
so difficult that we can hardly expect to obtain a decisive answer to
such questions as whether, for example, the mænadic exaltation is to be
considered as a melancholic or a cheerful state of mind. And in most
cases it would probably be equally impossible to ascertain whether in a
given manifestation we have to do with pleasure that seeks enhancement,
or with pain that seeks relief in exhaustion.

While every one is thus free to interpret the facts according to his
optimistic or pessimistic bias, it must nevertheless be considered as
a confusion of ideas to make the quest of unconsciousness a universal
and fundamental impulse in man. It is impossible for us to assign any
psychological importance to commonplaces on the enviable state of the
insensible and the happiness to be found in unconsciousness. It is only
when it delivers us from pain that a state of partial insensibility
and cessation of function may be perceived as relatively agreeable.
That an absolute absence of feeling could afford us any pleasure is a
psychological contradiction in terms.

This illusion of unconsciousness can, however, be easily explained by
the fact that intense emotional states are generally dominated by a
single preoccupation. A strong feeling, by reason of the limitations
of our consciousness, annihilates external sensations and ideas.
Ecstasy, that “over-conscious” state of highly concentrated activity,
rises above space and time to a state in which we feel liberated from
all forms of perception. But the highest pleasure which we may thus
experience is not, as Wagner in his pessimistic period would have it, a
sinking and drowning of ourselves in unconsciousness; it is far rather—

    “endlos ewig
    einbewuszt.”

To enjoy so rich and complete a sensation of life has, we believe,
been the object for which, each in his own manner, all men of strong
vitality have striven. Even if there are individuals so unfortunate
that for them a cessation of life and function appears as the highest
end of desire, such negative instances need hardly be taken into
account in a survey of universal human impulses. The longing for
unconsciousness is moreover so passive a condition of mind, that by
itself it could never explain expressional activities of the more
violent or elaborate sort. And it is even more insufficient as an
explanation of all those secondary expressions which are to occupy
us in the sequel. Art production would never have reached so high a
development if it had served only as a sedative for human feelings. But
neither does art, any more than the direct activities of expression,
involve mere excitement; it too fulfils, and with even greater
efficacy, a relieving and cathartic mission. While supplying man with
a means of intensifying the feelings connected with all the varied
activities of the soul, art at the same time bestows upon him that
inward calm in which all strong emotions find their relief.

Every interpretation of art which does not pay due attention to both of
these aspects must needs be one-sided and incomplete.




                              CHAPTER VI

                           SOCIAL EXPRESSION


In order to find an explanation of the nature and origin of the
art-impulse we were compelled to enter upon a digression on the general
psychology of feeling. It appeared from this hasty examination that
in the motor concomitants of physical as well as of mental feeling
we have to do with a form of activity which, taken by itself, is
independent of all external motives. It was shown that the diffusion
of a feeling-tone always corresponds to some active manifestation,
generally outward, which increases in the same degree as the state
of consciousness gains in intensity and distinctness. Besides these
immediate transformations of energy which, owing to the law of inertia,
follow the primary enhancement or inhibition of function, we met with
reactions of a more conscious kind, by which the organism strives to
overcome the inhibition of pain, and to keep up the excitement of
pleasure. And it was also found that the universal animal desire to
increase every pleasure and to relieve every pain has given rise to
a multitude of secondary manifestations, by which we try to sustain
every pleasure, to make it more distinct for consciousness, and thus
enhance it by expression, while, during states of pain, we strive for
relief in diversion or in violent motor discharge. Finally it was
remarked that by the side of this expressional impulse we must take
account of a yearning after increased consciousness, which leads us
to pursue, even at the risk of some passing pain, all feelings and
emotions by which our sensation of life is reinforced and intensified.
All these impulses, accompanied by higher or lower degrees of conscious
endeavour, are psychical phenomena of fundamental importance. They are
not restricted to any particular stage of culture. And their coercive
force is equal—nay, even superior to that of the imitative impulse, the
play-impulse, and the impulse “to attract by pleasing.” If we could
deduce the desire for artistic creation from the activities connected
with feeling, we should here find the explanation of its universality
as well as of its force.

But among the manifestations described in the foregoing chapters
there is none which directly leads us to the artistic activity. As
against the _Spieltrieb_ theories it was objected that play never
develops of itself into art, so it may now be objected, with as much
reason, that all immediate or secondary emotional manifestations,
however interesting they may be, give us no information on artistic
manifestations. The instinctive tendency to express overmastering
feeling, to enhance pleasure, and to seek relief from pain, forms the
most deep-seated motive of all human activity. We can therefore derive
the distinctive qualities of artistic production from this impulse only
when it has been proved that art is better able than any other kind of
mental function to serve and satisfy the requirements which arise from
this impulse when it occurs in its purest form.

That this is the case, is the fundamental hypothesis upon which this
work is based. It was impossible to prove its validity as long as
emotional manifestations were treated as phenomena in the psychical
life of the individual. For art is in its innermost nature a social
activity. In order to elucidate the connection between art-impulse
and emotional activities, we must therefore examine the latter as
they appear in the social relations of mankind. We do not believe
that any new principles are necessary for this purpose. We need only
apply to social phenomena the same laws which were found to be valid
for the emotional life of the individual. As, however, the legitimacy
of such a course may be questioned, we must first devote some pages
to a treatment of what we may call—if the expression is allowed—the
interindividual life.

This digression brings us into a field of inquiry—that of the psychical
conditions of social life—which during recent years has been the object
of certain most important scientific researches. The investigations
into the psychology of masses, as well as the experiments on suggestive
therapeutics, have proved to how great an extent mental states may be
transmitted from individual to individual by unconscious imitation
of the accompanying movements. The doctrine of universal sympathy, a
clear statement of which was given long ago in the ethical theory of
Adam Smith,[97] has thus acquired a psychological justification in
the modern theories of imitative movement. Contemporary science has
at last learned to appreciate the fundamental importance of imitation
for the development of human culture.[98] And some authors have even
gone so far as to endeavour to deduce all sociological laws from this
one principle. At the same time natural history has begun to pay more
and more attention to the indispensability of imitation for the full
development of instincts, as well as for training in those activities
which are the most necessary in life.[99]

It is fortunate for the theory of art that the importance of the
imitative functions has thus been simultaneously acknowledged in
various departments of science. Whatever one may think of the
somewhat audacious generalisations which have been made in the recent
application of this new principle, it is incontestable that the
æsthetic activities can be understood and explained only by reference
to universal tendency to imitate. It is also significant that writers
on æsthetic had felt themselves compelled to set up a theory of
imitation long before experimental psychologists had begun to turn
their attention in this direction. In Germany the enjoyment of form and
form-relations has since Vischer’s time been interpreted as the result
of the movements by which not only our eye, but also our whole body,
follows the outlines of external things.[100] In France Jouffroy stated
the condition for the receiving of æsthetic impressions to be a “power
of internally imitating the states which are externally manifested in
living nature.”[101] In England, finally, Vernon Lee and Anstruther
Thompson have founded a theory of beauty and ugliness upon this same
psychical impulse to copy in our own unconscious movements the forms
of objects.[102] And in the writings of, for instance, Home,[103]
Hogarth,[104] Dugald Stewart,[105] and Spencer,[106] there can be found
a multitude of isolated remarks on the influence which is in a direct
way exercised on our mental life by the perception of lines and forms.

In most of these theories and observations, however, the imitative
activity has been noticed only in so far as it contributes to the
æsthetic delight which may be derived from sensual impressions. But its
importance is by no means so restricted as this; on the contrary, we
believe it to be a fundamental condition for the existence of intuition
itself. Without all these imperceptible tracing movements with which
our body accompanies the adaptation of the eye-muscles to the outlines
of external objects, our notions of depth, height, and distance, and
so on, would certainly be far less distinct than they are.[107] On
the other hand, the habit of executing such movements has, so to say,
brought the external world within the sphere of the internal. The
world has been measured with man as a standard, and objects have been
translated into the language of mental experience. The impressions have
hereby gained not only in emotional tone, but also in intellectual
comprehensibility.[108]

Greater still is the importance of imitation for our intuition of
moving objects. And a difficult movement itself is fully understood
only when it has been imitated, either internally or in actual outward
activity. The idea of a movement, therefore, is generally associated
with an arrested impulse to perform it.[109] Closer introspection will
show every one to how great a part our knowledge, even of persons,
is built up of motor elements. By unconsciously and imperceptibly
copying in our own body the external behaviour of a man, we may learn
to understand him with benevolent or malevolent sympathy.[110] And it
will no doubt be admitted by most readers that the reason why they know
their friends and foes better than they know any one else is that they
carry the remembrance of them not only in their eyes, but in their
whole body. When in idle moments we find the memory of an absent friend
surging up in our mind with no apparent reason, we may often note, to
our astonishment, that we have just been unconsciously adopting one of
his characteristic attitudes, or imitating his peculiar gestures or
gait.

It may, however, be objected that the above-mentioned instances refer
only to a particular class of individuals. In other minds, it will be
said, the world-picture is entirely built up of visual and acoustic
elements. It is also impossible to deny that the classification of
minds in different types, which modern psychology has introduced, is
as legitimate as it is advantageous for the purposes of research. But
we can hardly believe that such divisions have in view anything more
than a relative predominance of the several psychical elements.[111]
It is easily understood that a man in whose store of memory visual or
acoustic images occupy the foremost place may be inclined to deny that
motor sensations of unconscious copying enter to any extent into his
psychical experience. But an exclusively visual world-image, if such a
thing is possible, must evidently be not only emotionally poorer, but
also intellectually less distinct and less complete, than an intuition,
in which such motor elements are included.

The importance of motor sensations in the psychology of knowledge is
by itself of no æsthetic interest. The question has been touched upon
in this connection only because of the illustration which it gives
to the imitation theory. If, as we believe is the case, it is really
necessary, for the purpose of acquiring a complete comprehension of
things and events, to “experience” them—that is to say, to pursue
and seize upon them, not only with the particular organ of sense to
which they appeal, but also by tracing movements of the whole body,
then there is no need to wonder at the universality of the imitative
impulse. Imitation does not only, according to this view, facilitate
our training in useful activities, and aid us in deriving an æsthetic
delight from our sensations: it serves also, and perhaps primarily,
as an expedient for the accommodating of ourselves to the external
world, and for the explaining of things by reference to ourselves. It
is therefore natural that imitative movements should occupy so great
a place among the activities of children and primitive men. And we
can also understand why this fundamental impulse, which has played so
important a part in racial as well as in individual education, may
become so great as to be a disease and dominate the whole of conscious
life.[112] As children we all imitated before we comprehended, and we
have learned to comprehend by imitating.[113] It is only when we have
grown familiar by imitation with the most important data of perception
that we become capable of appropriating knowledge in a more rational
way. Although no adult has any need to resort to external imitation in
order to comprehend new impressions, it is still only natural that in a
pathological condition he should relapse into the primitive imitative
reaction. And it is equally natural that an internal, _i.e._ arrested,
imitation should take place in all our perceptions. After this
explanation of the universality of this phenomenon we have no further
need to occupy ourselves with the general psychology of imitation. We
have here only to take notice of its importance for the communication
of feeling.

As is well known, it is only in cases of abnormally increased
sensibility—for instance, in some of the stages of hypnotism and
thought transmission—that the motor counterpart of a mental state can
be imitated with such faithfulness and completeness that the imitator
is thereby enabled to partake of all the _intellectual_ elements of
the state existing in another. The hedonic qualities, on the other
hand, which are physiologically conditioned by much simpler motor
counterparts, may of course be transmitted with far greater perfection:
it is easier to suggest a pleasure than a thought. It is also evident
that it is the most general hedonic and volitional elements which have
been considered by the German authors on æsthetic in their theories
on internal imitation (“Die innere Nachahmung”). They seem to have
thought that the adoption of the attitudes and the performance of the
movements which usually accompany a given emotional state will also
succeed to some extent in producing a similar emotional state. This
assumption is perfectly legitimate, even if the connection between
feeling and movement be interpreted in the associative way. And it
needs no justification when the motor changes are considered as the
physiological correlate of the feeling itself.

Everyday experience affords many examples of the way in which feelings
are called into existence by the imitation of their expressive
movements. A child repeats the smiles and the laughter of its
parents, and can thus partake of their joy long before it is able
to understand its cause.[114] Adult life naturally does not give us
many opportunities of observing this pure form of direct and almost
automatic transmission. But even in adult life we may often meet
with an exchange of feeling which seems almost independent of any
intellectual communication. Lovers know it, and intimate friends like
the brothers Goncourt,[115] to say nothing of people who stand in so
close a rapport with each other as a hypnotiser and his subject.[116]
And even where there is no previous sympathetic relation, a state of
joy or sadness may often, if it is only distinctly expressed, pass
over, so to say, from the individual who has been under the influence
of its objective cause, to another who, as it were, borrows the
feeling, but remains unconscious of its cause. We experience this
phenomenon almost daily in the influence exerted upon us by social
intercourse, and even by those aspects of nature—for instance, blue
open sky or overhanging mountains—which naturally call up in us the
physical manifestation of emotional states. The coercive force with
which our surroundings—animate or inanimate—compel us to adopt the
feelings which are suggested by their attitudes, forms, or movements,
is perhaps as a rule too weak to be noticed by a self-controlled,
unemotional man. But if we want an example of this influence at its
strongest, we need but remember how difficult it is for an individual
to resist the contagion of collective feeling.[117] On public occasions
the common mood, whether of joy or sorrow, is often communicated even
to those who were originally possessed by the opposite feeling. So
powerful is the infection of great excitement that—according to M.
Féré—even a perfectly sober man who takes part in a drinking bout may
often be tempted to join in the antics of his drunken comrades in a
sort of second-hand intoxication, “drunkenness by induction.”[118] In
the great mental epidemics of the Middle Ages this kind of contagion
operated with more fatal results than ever before or afterwards. But
even in modern times a popular street riot may often show us something
of the same phenomenon. The great tumult in London in 1886 afforded, it
is said, a good opportunity of observing how people who had originally
maintained an indifferent attitude were gradually carried away by the
general excitement, even to the extent of joining in the outrages.[119]
In this instance the contagious effect of expressional movements
was undoubtedly facilitated by their connection with so primary an
impulse as that of rapine and destruction. But the case is the same
with all the activities which appear as the outward manifestations of
our strongest feeling-states. They all consist of instinctive actions
with which every one is well familiar from his own experience. It
is therefore natural that anger, hate, or love may be communicated
almost automatically from an individual to masses, and from masses to
individuals.

Now that the principle of the interindividual diffusion of feeling has
been stated and explained, we may return to our main line of research
and examine its bearings on the expressional impulse. We have seen that
in the social surroundings of the individual there is enacted a process
resembling that which takes place within his own organism. Just as
functional modifications spread from organ to organ, just as wider and
wider zones of the system are brought into participation in the primary
enhancement or inhibition, so a feeling is diffused from an individual
to a circle of sympathisers who repeat its expressional movements.
And just as all the widened “somatic resonances” contribute to the
primary feeling-tone increased strength and increased definiteness, so
must the emotional state of an individual be enhanced by retroactive
stimulation from the expressions by which the state has, so to say,
been continued in others. By the reciprocal action of primary movements
and borrowed movements, which mutually imitate each other, the social
expression operates in the same way as the individual expression. And
we are entitled to consider it as a secondary result of the general
expressional impulse, that when mastered by an overpowering feeling
we seek enhancement or relief by retroaction from sympathisers, who
reproduce and in their expression represent the mental state by which
we are dominated.

In point of fact we can observe in the manifestations of all strong
feelings which have not found a satisfactory relief in individual
expression, a pursuit of social resonance. A happy man wants to see
glad faces around him, in order that from their expression he may
derive further nourishment and increase for his own feeling. Hence the
benevolent attitude of mind which as a rule accompanies all strong and
pure joy. Hence also the widespread tendency to express joy by gifts
or hospitality. In moods of depression we similarly desire a response
to our feeling from our surroundings. In the depth of despair we may
long for a universal cataclysm to extend, as it were, our own pain.
As joy naturally makes men good, so pain often makes them hard and
cruel. That this is not always the case is a result of the increased
power of sympathy which we gain by every experienced pain. Moreover,
we have need of sympathetic rapport for our motor reactions against
pain. All the active manifestations of sorrow, despair, or anger which
are not wholly painful in themselves are facilitated by the reciprocal
influence of collective excitement. Thus all strong feelings,
whether pleasurable or painful, act as socialising factors.[120] This
socialising action may be observed at all stages of development. Even
the animals seek their fellows in order to stimulate themselves and
each other by the common expression of an overpowering feeling. As
has been remarked by Espinas, the flocking together of the male birds
during the pairing season is perhaps as much due to this craving for
mutual stimulation as to the desire to compete for the favour of the
hen.[121] The howling choirs of the macaws[122] and the drum concerts
of the chimpanzees[123] are still better and unmistakable instances
of collective emotional expression. In man we find the results of the
same craving for social expression in the gatherings for rejoicing or
mourning which are to be met with in all tribes, of all degrees of
development. And as a still higher development of the same fundamental
impulse, there appears in man the artistic activity.

The more conscious our craving for retroaction from sympathisers,
the more there must also be developed in us a conscious endeavour to
cause the feeling to be appropriated by as many as possible and as
completely as possible. The expressional impulse is not satisfied by
the resonance which an occasional public, however sympathetic, is able
to afford. Its natural aim is to bring more and more sentient beings
under the influence of the same emotional state. It seeks to vanquish
the refractory and arouse the indifferent. An echo, a true and powerful
echo—that is what it desires with all the energy of an unsatisfied
longing. As a result of this craving the expressional activities lead
to artistic production. The work of art presents itself as the most
effective means by which the individual is enabled to convey to wider
and wider circles of sympathisers an emotional state similar to that by
which he is himself dominated.

We propose in the next chapter to indicate the way in which art in its
various forms has served the expressional craving.




                              CHAPTER VII

                        DEDUCTION OF ART-FORMS


In the science of art many hypotheses have been advanced as to the
order in which the different art-forms have made their appearance. We
do not intend to bring forward any new arguments on this much-debated
question. Even if our knowledge of prehistoric man were so complete
and trustworthy as to entitle us to draw any conclusions as to the
earliest stages in art-development, such an appeal to history would in
the present connection constitute a grave confusion of standpoints.
As long as we are occupied with that abstract datum, the purely
artistic activity, we cannot possibly find any support for our
reasoning in existing works of art, concerning which the question
may always be raised whether the motive was or was not a purely
autotelic art-impulse. We shall therefore in the following pages
entirely ignore the question of historical sequence and restrict our
attention to the various degrees of theoretical priority. Starting
from the interpretation of artistic activity which was postulated,
but not yet proved, in the preceding chapter, we shall consider those
art-forms as most primordial which stand in the closest connection
with the expression of feeling. By comparing those manifestations
of art-activity which are from our standpoint elementary, with the
non-æsthetic expression of emotional states, we shall try to isolate
the peculiarly artistic qualities in their simplest possible form. If
the result of such a treatment prove consistent with general æsthetic
ideals, as exhibited in the literature of art, this fact will naturally
go to the credit of our explanation.

The purest and most typical expression of simple feeling is that which
consists of mere random movements. Those activities, whether of the
whole body or of special parts,—the larynx, for instance,—which follow
immediately upon, or rather accompany, a state of pleasure or pain,
are in themselves entirely non-æsthetic. Thus it is impossible to see
anything artistic in the spectacle of a man leaping or shouting for
joy. Yet the lowest kind of lyrical music and lyrical “gymnastic” dance
may be almost as directly connected with the original state of feeling
as these purely expressional activities. The only difference is that in
music and dance the movements have been limited and restrained by the
adoption of a fixed sequence in time. This fixed sequence in time—the
rhythm—must therefore, from our point of view, be considered as the
simplest of all art-forms.

If we were to give a complete account of the psychology of rhythm, it
would be impossible not to resort to a sociological and historical
mode of treatment. By Dr. Wallaschek’s researches on primitive music
it has been conclusively shown how important a part rhythm, as a
means of facilitating co-operation, has played in the struggle for
existence.[124] And this utilitarian explanation has recently been
carried even farther by Professor Bücher, who points out the invaluable
saving of effort which the individual obtains by regulating his
movements in a fixed sequence of time.[125] We may think that Professor
Bücher has stretched his point too far in endeavouring to derive almost
all music and poetry from the economical exigencies of labour;[126]
but there can be no doubt that in whichever way the ultimate origin
of musical arts be explained, their development is largely due to the
practical advantages of rhythm. These considerations, however, which
will be developed in the following chapters, need not detain us here,
where we have to do with the presumably non-utilitarian and purely
æsthetic work of art. If the practical advantages of economy and
co-operation can be eliminated,—if we can imagine a dance and a song
which has not for its aim the facilitation or regulation of some form
of work or the stimulation of some effort, which, in short, has its
sole aim and purpose in itself,—then the art-element in this dance or
song must be explicable without reference to “foreign” purposes.

The only explanation we have been able to find is one which brings us
back to the standpoint of the last chapter. Looking upon art as an
essentially social activity, we naturally bestow our main attention
upon rhythm as a factor of unification. But as we are not allowed to
take into account its importance for _practical_ co-operation, we can
only interpret it as a means of bringing about _emotional_ community.
And it is evident that the fixed sequence in time, when used for the
purpose of communicating a state of feeling, must produce the same
effect as when it serves the purpose of diffusing and regulating the
impulses to work.

This fact can also be observed in all cases of social expression. The
most general and simple states of emotional excitement, such as a
festive mood or a warlike intoxication, may indeed be diffused with
sufficient efficacy by simple contagious imitation. But even with
regard to such eminently infectious feelings, if a great mass of
men is to be collectively and simultaneously stimulated by a common
execution of the appropriate expressive movements, these movements must
be regulated by the adoption of a rhythm. On the other hand, as soon
as the expression is fixed in rhythmical form its contagious power is
incalculably increased. By its incessant and regular recurrence, the
rhythm takes a ruthless hold of the attention, and thereby compels
even the most recalcitrant to yield to the power of the transmitted
feeling.[127]

As evidence of the irresistibility with which a rhythmical expression
may rouse an audience to an almost unvoluntary imitation, one may refer
to the familiar effects of the southern dances. The tarantella, as is
well known, often entices the unwilling as well as the willing to join
in its wild movements. And the same is said of several other Spanish
and Italian dances. We need only refer to the apologue of the Fandango,
so often used as a motive of ballets, in which the dance, brought into
court for causing disturbance, compels judge and jury to yield to
its temptations and dissolve the sitting for a fierce gambade.[128]
Such stories give an exaggerated yet typical example of the great
influence which the sight of dancing exercises on the lively Latin
nations. An impassive Northerner can indeed always master the impulse
to join actively in a wild dance. But even he cannot avoid sharing the
excitement by internal imitation.

It is, however, impossible to decide with any exactitude whether the
effects which a dance-performance exercises on the spectators are
mainly due to the movements themselves or to the rhythm by which they
are regulated. In order, therefore, to estimate at its proper value the
importance of time, it is necessary to examine it as it appears when
isolated from bodily movement. The lowest types of music, in which the
element of melody is of no importance, show us rhythm in its simplest
and purest form. Such instruments as drums, tom-toms, and castanets
may serve as a most effective means of emotional excitation. The same
exaltation or depression, which in a dance is conveyed by a series
of varied expressive movements, may be transmitted with almost equal
effectiveness by a simple sequence of sounds. Any group of acoustic
impressions following each other in a fixed rhythm may, independently
of their character, arouse in the listener the same modifications of
functions and activities, and hence also the same emotional state,
as was originally expressed by this particular time-sequence. Thus
pure feeling, as it appears when abstraction has been made of all
intellectual elements, can be as it were exteriorised in rhythmical
form. And, which is of still greater importance, a pure feeling can in
this exteriorisation be fixed down for future repetition. Even in its
simplest manifestations art is thus capable of raising an emotional
state beyond the limitations of space and time.

It is most natural, when speaking of the connection between feeling
and rhythm, to refer to dance and the simplest vocal and instrumental
music. But it goes without saying that the effects are the same in
kind, although less in degree, when the time-sequence is impressed upon
our mind in some more indirect way. Thus, by appropriating the element
of rhythm, which enters into all poetry, we may in reciting or reading
a verse partake of an emotional state in the same way as we do when
joining, actively or “internally,” the movements of a dance. Similarly,
the formative and decorative arts may, by compelling our eye to follow
a regular arrangement of lines and figures, transmit to us an emotional
excitement by the mediation of rhythm. Ornament, that purely popular
art, may therefore be compared as to its psychological effects with
simple popular dances and melodies.[129]

In these three logically most primordial arts, viz. gymnastic dance,
geometric ornament, and unmelodic, simply rhythmical music or singing,
the unmotived “objectless” feeling is expressed in a medium which
directly conveys to us its accompanying modifications of activity.
Notwithstanding the meagreness of their intellectual content, these
purely lyrical forms, if we may so call them, are therefore emotionally
suggestive to a high degree. General and indistinct moods, such as a
feeling of ease, of liberation from restraint, of assurance and power,
etc., may by them be transmitted with unsurpassable fidelity. But
their expressive power is also confined to such purely hedonic states.
Whenever, therefore, the feeling forms a part of a differentiated
and fully formed emotion, the impulse to social expression must avail
itself of some more adequate means of transmission.

In point of fact there will nearly always, even in the most impulsive
outburst of pleasure or pain, enter an element of simple dramatic
representation, by which some of the mental qualities distinctive of
the various emotions are communicated. With regard to dancing, for
instance, we can only speak in the abstract of any simply “gymnastic”
forms.[130] Even if the movements originally aim at nothing but
enhancement or relief for an indistinct emotional state, they will
unavoidably take the character of such movements as have been
connected with some emotion, and thereby, in spectators as well as
in performers, awaken some faint revival of this complex state of
feeling. This process can be very clearly observed in the case of
the pseudo-pantomimes which are so general among lower tribes. When
a savage is in a high-strung state of feeling, he generally resorts
to the same movements which have served him to express the greatest
and most frequent excitements of his life. Among warlike tribes the
dances of joy, as well as their developments, salutation dances,
and complimentary dances,[131] generally have a distinct military
character.[132] No doubt it may be contended that the particular
character of these pantomimes was originally a result of political
considerations. In a military state of society it is perhaps simply
a measure of safety to receive strangers with threats. But however
important this utilitarian aspect may be, it seems more probable that
a great part of these apparently unmotived pantomimes, which are
executed when we should expect only a simple outburst of joy, are best
interpreted as real instances of borrowed expression, necessitated by
the limitations of our means of expression and furthered by associative
processes.

In the life of self-contained educated men we do not generally
meet with this phenomenon in so distinct a form. But even here the
fragmentary pantomimes into which a man often falls when mastered by
a quite indistinct feeling—we need only refer to the erotic character
of embraces and other gestures of joy—show us that expression always
adds an element of definiteness to the psychical state expressed.
When treating of the reactions consequent upon bodily pain, we
have already had to take into account the species of imaginative
materialisation, as though pain were a concrete thing, a shirt of
Nessus, by which a sufferer is generally induced to explain his
automatic movements. Here we need only point out that a similar, so to
speak, mythogenic influence, a natural tendency to personification,
results not only from reactions to pain, but also from all expressive
activities. An indistinct mood of pleasure thus generally passes
over into a joy—that is, a feeling which is referred to some cause,
imaginary or real—when the functional enhancement has reached our
voluntary muscles. An oppression, which in its origin may be purely
physiological, is transformed, when the bodily modifications become
more differentiated,[133] into fear of something unknown—for instance,
some impending danger.

Since it is so difficult for the individual himself to perceive a
mental state as one of pure sensation with no element of thought, we
need not wonder that his expression always transmits to the spectator
something more than the mere excitement or depression of simple
feeling. However strictly we try to isolate the pure rhythm of a
lyrical performance, there will always slip into it an element of
mimetic expression—we do not know of a better adjective—which suggests
a mental state, distincter and better defined than that of pure
feeling. In reality, therefore, the dramatic forms of dancing are no
less primordial than those purely rhythmical manifestations which the
necessities of treatment have compelled us to consider as a separate
group.[134] It is also evident that the dramatic or mimetic element
will increase in importance as the endeavour to represent mental states
and transmit them to outsiders becomes more conscious and deliberate.

We have dealt at sufficient length with the transmission of emotion
by mimetic expression. A striking instance of this process has
already been found outside the domain of art in the contagiousness of
collective states of mind. When art adopts emotional transmission as
an end in itself, this contagiousness is naturally increased. On the
side of the executant we have to suppose a conscious endeavour to make
the mimic expression as easily appropriated as possible; on the side
of the spectator an increased readiness to partake of the expressed
feeling. A theatrical audience, indeed, unlike a riotous mob, does not
generally go so far as to imitate its leader, the actor, by actual
movement. Conscious of the fictitious character of the performance, the
spectators are able to resist the sub-conscious volitional impulses
which they receive. But while thus controlling their outward activity,
those who attentively follow the acting may nevertheless appropriate in
an almost direct manner the feelings represented. Although they remain
passive spectators and preserve an appearance of immobility, they are
apt to follow, in a kind of abridgment, the attitudes and facial play
of the performers. At the most critical stages of a popular melodrama
the audience always falls into an unconscious pantomime, which, as
Engel remarked, to the psychological observer is of far greater
interest than that enacted on the stage.[135] In the higher forms of
dramatic art this direct transmission of feeling no doubt loses a great
deal of its importance. But we believe that every attentive playgoer
has occasional opportunities of observing, in himself if not in his
neighbours, faint traces of an unconscious and involuntary imitation
which follows all the movements of the performers. Such imitation will,
of course, become more and more pronounced the more the dialogue gives
place to pantomimic action, and the more vividly and convincingly this
action is represented. As an example of the power with which a good
mimic may compel even the most critical spectator to participate in
emotional moods, we cannot quote anything better than the description
of Garrick in Lichtenberg’s _Briefe aus England_. “His facial
expression is so powerful as to invite imitation. When he is grave his
audience is grave. When he frowns the house frowns, and it smiles when
he smiles. In his hidden pleasure, and in his intimate manner, when, in
an aside, he gives the audience his confidence, there is something so
winning that one’s whole soul goes out to this fascinating man.”[136]

It may be thought that the above described processes occur only in
those arts which can be called dramatic in the proper sense of the
word. If this were the case, the principle of emotional transmission
by direct imitation would of course be of very restricted æsthetic
importance. We think, however, that a histrionic element can be
noticed, with greater or less distinctness, no doubt, in all the
various forms of artistic production. It certainly enters into
literature, where popular authors, especially of the sentimental class,
always possessed the secret of suggesting feelings by representing
their manifestations in “contagious” description. And it plays an
important part in all the arts of design, formative as well as
decorative.

We may often catch ourselves faintly imitating movements or attitudes
represented in sculpture. And this influence of suggestion is felt
not only, as Professor Lange thinks, in the case of melodramatic
sculpture—expressive of the most violent passions—it contributes also,
in no slight degree, to our enjoyment of the forms which represent the
gentler moods.[137] However calm and impassive the facial expression
of a statue may be, the attitude of the body will always communicate
to us a feeling of some kind, of strength and assurance, or perhaps of
settled melancholy.

In the art of painting this mimetic principle tends to be lost among
the descriptive elements. The direct transmission of feeling is
replaced by an indirect and associative one. Still, there are few
works, if any, in which the histrionic factor is entirely lacking.
It may be detected with especial clearness in sentimental or comic
figure-painting, which often literally infects us with the emotions it
represents. When looking at a Japanese caricature, for instance, of the
gods of happiness, we often laugh with the laughter of the picture long
before we have realised the cause of it, or formulated any judgment as
to the artistic merits of the representation.

It is true that pictorial art has many branches in which the human
figure does not appear at all. But this absence does not by any means
entail a complete loss of mimetic suggestiveness. As our perceptions,
whether of animate or inanimate objects, are always accompanied by a
complete or abortive imitation, any kind of form or movement may call
forth in us activities distinctive of some emotional mood. Just as a
rhythmic series of simple acoustic or visual impressions may occasion
in us the functional modifications accompanying simple feeling, and
thereby arouse in us the mental state of which this rhythm is an
exteriorisation, so the mimic movements which are the physiological
counterparts of distinct emotion may be, so to speak, translated into
lines and forms, by which the emotion is reproduced in other minds.
Thus even an object of handicraft—a vase, for instance—may, by the
suggestiveness of its shape, affect our emotional life in an almost
immediate way. And geometric ornament has an equal, if not even
greater, power of conjuring up in us emotional states, which we read
into the angles and volutes. Finally, the concrete objects of nature
are full of “expressive qualities” which make them available as a means
of conveying our feelings. The whole world of visual reality can thus
be used in a kind of indirect mimetism,—a dramatic expression, so to
speak, in which natural and abstract forms replace the human body.

The course of our argument has led us to emphasise the lyrical and
dramatic elements in artistic activity. But we do not by any means
wish to underrate the fact that it is only a very small minority of
works the nature of which can be exhaustively described by these two
qualities. With increased importance of the intellectual elements
accompanying the emotional states, direct emotional suggestion must
unavoidably appear an inadequate means of communication. A joy or a
sorrow, together with a notion of some objective cause of it, rapture
or admiration, anger, hate, or despair,—all these and similar states
can be completely conveyed to an outsider only in so far as they have
been accounted for to his intellect. As the theoretically latest
manifestation of the craving for social expression there will thus
appear an impulse to represent or describe objective events or things,
by which a feeling similar to that of the producing artist may be
called forth in his audience. And thus in almost all art-forms, in
ornament and music as well as in painting and novels, there will be
found an imitation of nature which serves what in the widest use of the
term we may call an epic purpose.

The intellectual justification of a feeling by representation of a
cause and the orderly form of its direct or secondary expression are,
however, in themselves insufficient to secure a response; the attention
and goodwill of the audience must first be conciliated. A sympathetic
rapport always presupposes a state of compliance in at least one of
the parties involved. When seeking by means of a work of art to obtain
a response to an overmastering feeling the artist is thus constrained
to exercise persuasion upon his real or fictitious public. As M.
Sully-Prudhomme has finely remarked, it is only by first caressing our
senses that art rouses our feelings and awakens our thoughts.[138]
Besides that element of beauty which can be immediately derived from
the expressed content, and that element of gracefulness which follows
as result of the psychical freedom attained by expression, there are
in nearly all works of art qualities whose aim is exclusively to
please. If we may risk a somewhat audacious parallel, we may say that
the work of art, in the same way as a living organism, an animal or
a plant, entices the attention and charms the senses with the beauty
of its “means of attraction,” not for the sake of these attractions
themselves, but for the secret they at the same time conceal and
disclose. All these allurements might easily cause a superficial
observer to lose sight of the simple fact which lies at the bottom of
the artistic work, viz. the feeling-state which demands expression and
response. We thus see why the impulse to attract by pleasing has been
considered as synonymous with the art-impulse.

As has already been remarked, such an interpretation cannot account
for the coercive force of the artistic impulse. And equally with the
theories based upon the epic or descriptive elements in art, it is
incompatible with the principle of the unity of art. If the logical
evolution of the art-forms is conceived in the way we have described,
all the various manifestations of artistic activity can be derived
from one common principle. And by the aid of this one principle we are
able to explain the force of that impulse which, with similar coercive
force, urges to creation within the various art-forms.

However much the artistic impulse may become differentiated with the
progress of culture, its innermost nature will always remain the same.
However complex its manifestations, their aim is always to secure a
faithful response to an overmastering feeling. The more accomplished
the work of art, the more its creator will become independent of the
chance audience, which by its sympathetic expression produces an
enhancing retroaction on his feeling. He learns to give his mental
states an embodiment which facilitates their reproduction in wider
surroundings. Thus the expressional impulse directs him to place
himself in sympathetic rapport with a fictitious public. He creates,
that is to say, expresses himself, for an ideal spectator,—for
posterity or for himself. With a proud indifference to his most
immediate social environment, he may thus consider his own production
as perfectly exempt of any social motivation. The aphorism of Mill,
“All poetry is a soliloquy,” would no doubt be accepted by many of
the most eminent poets. But the psychological observer cannot help
remarking that in such soliloquies the ego serves as a substitute for
an external public. The artist has in a sense a double capacity; and
artistic creation in solitude may be always explained by the fact that
the creator exists also as his own spectator.

The production of even the most individualistic and most isolated
artists can therefore be explained only by sociological considerations.
And the same is the case with those artists who work only for
posterity. It would be wrong to say that art in any one of its higher
manifestations aims at transmitting a feeling. Its purpose is far
rather an immortalisation. But this very desire to perpetuate a mental
state, this desire which constrains the artist to strive indefatigably
for the attainment of a form, capable of imparting to all men of
every country and every age the same enhancement and the same rapture
which he has himself experienced—this highest manifestation of the
expressional impulse—can be fully explained only by reference to
the enhancing and relieving power of social expression. In whatever
light the art-impulse may appear to the reflecting consciousness of
the producing artist, this is the only consistent interpretation at
which we can arrive by an examination of the artistic activity on
psychological grounds.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                           ART THE RELIEVER


In the endeavour to secure the transmission and perpetuation of a
feeling, the expressional activity gradually loses its purely impulsive
character. From an almost reflex outlet for abnormal nervous pressure,
it is more and more transformed into deliberate artistic production,
which is conscious of its aim as well as of the means for attaining
it. The elaboration of a work of art, in which the expression of
a feeling-state is to be concentrated, and concentrated in a way
which not only facilitates but even enforces in the spectator the
assimilation of this state, is a complicated operation which cannot of
course take place without the effectual co-operation of intellectual
and volitional activities. And their co-operation, on the other hand,
must evidently exercise some influence on the primordial feeling.

It is a familiar observation, duly emphasised in all psychological
handbooks, that strong feelings make clear thought impossible. Everyday
experience, as well as scientific experiment, gives unmistakable
evidence of the influence which abnormal excitement or depression
exercises, not only on our ideas and their associations, but even on
the perceptions. The converse has perhaps not been stated so often.
Still, it does not admit of doubt that intensified intellectual
activity may, in some cases, even more effectually than motor reaction,
overcome the tyranny of a hypernormal feeling. It is true that every
mental state becomes more distinct as a phenomenon of consciousness
when our thoughts are directed towards it. Feelings of low and moderate
intensity may even be enhanced in their purely emotional aspect if we
let our intellect play on them. But as soon as a greater intensity of
feeling is reached, this relation is reversed. Joy which is so great as
to be a burden, “Die Noth der Fülle,”[139] and numbing despair, must
inevitably decrease when there is an increase of distinctness in their
intellectual elements. The more we can compel ourselves to contemplate
with cool and clear attention the causes and manifestations of such
high-strung states, the more we are also able to master them. It is a
familiar experience to everyone that strong fear can be vanquished, if
only we can succeed in diverting all our attention to its objective
source, and “stare the danger in the face.” When the attention is
concentrated and intensified to the utmost degree, it may even, as in
the case of fascination, entirely prevent, to our own danger, the very
rise of this self-preserving emotion.

In artistic creation we are not concerned with an intentional or
unintentional effort to overcome feeling. On the contrary the aim is
here to keep the strongest possible hold of it in order to give it
the most effective embodiment. So irreconcilable, however, is the
conflict between emotional excitement and intellectual activity, that
the latter, even when it expressly serves the purposes of emotional
enhancement, must neutralise the excess of feeling. A state of strong
pleasure or pain can never be rendered intelligible to outsiders,
unless its expression is bridled and disciplined by thought. By being
thus embodied in a fixed form the feeling gains in conceivability as
well as in infectious power. But while the effect on spectators and
listeners is in this way increased, the artistic form influences the
feeling subject himself in a quite different way. Its very clearness
and distinctness necessarily brings something of that calm which all
excitement seeks as relief.

The immediate reaction which the work of art exercises on its own
creator is of course most easily seen and understood in the “higher”
art-forms with their pronounced intellectual elements. Literary
instances of the “poetic cure” for harassing or oppressing emotion are
too numerous to be mentioned. The only point we need dwell on is the
question how these instances are to be interpreted. When a poet seeks
to give shape and form to his own sufferings by means of fiction,
the relief he obtains is no doubt in part an effect of the diversion
of activity into the channels of expression. But to a still greater
degree it may be a result of the healthful influence exercised by the
contemplation of objective reality in the finished work of art. Such an
influence is unmistakable in the most illustrious instance of artistic
production as a life-preserving expedient: Goethe’s _Leiden des
jungen Werther_. In his memoirs the old poet frankly and unreservedly
describes how, when lacerated by the conflict between hypochondriac,
suicidal thoughts and an ineradicable love of life and cheerfulness,
he resorted to the old homely remedy of writing down his sufferings.
He lays especial stress on his desire to give definite form and body
to his vague feelings of distress. And as we read that afterwards,
when the work lay finished before him, “bound in boards, as a picture
in its frame, so as to prove the more convincingly its individual and
concrete existence,” he could feel “free and joyful, and entitled to
a new life,” we cannot but explain this renewed courage to live as a
result of the sensation of security and support which the beholding of
external form affords.[140]

Thus, to begin with, by its character as a palpable, objective reality,
the work of art may diminish the subjective disturbance in which it
originates. This influence is supplemented by the retroaction of the
æsthetic qualities, in the narrowest sense of the term, such as beauty,
symmetry, and the like, by which an artist always seeks, intentionally
or unintentionally, to arrest the attention of his public. The more
therefore the work grows in definiteness in the thought and under the
hand of the artist, the more it will repress and subdue the chaotic
tumult of emotional excitement. The Dionysiac rapture, as the ancients
would have said, gives place to Apolline serenity. In language pruned
of mythological symbolism, this only means that art is better able
than any of the immediate expressional activities to give complete and
effective relief from emotional pressure. And it further implies that
however earnestly an artist may strive to communicate to his public
the exact feeling he has himself experienced, the emotional content
expressed in his work will always be of another and more harmonious
character than the mental state by which his production was originally
called into existence. To the extent that artistic form appears in a
given work or manifestation there will also be present, independently
of the subject,—cheerful or sad, passionate or calm,—a sense of mental
liberation, which atones for the excesses of emotional excitement.

In a final and exhaustive treatment of æsthetic problems this influence
of artistic form would need to be traced through all the departments of
art-activity. And it would be one of the most interesting parts of such
a research to estimate the relative power with which art in its various
branches is able to assuage at the same time as it excites. We need not
here undertake such a thorough comparative examination of the different
arts. What has been said about literary creation may be applied in
substance to formative production as well. And it even remains true
with regard to those most lyrical and immediately expressive arts which
seem to be altogether destitute of objective form and intellectual
content. Although it has often been said that the lowest kinds of
music are purely emotional manifestations, we may still discern an
element of form in the rhythm which regulates even the simplest songs
and dances.[141] And the creation of this form undoubtedly requires a
certain amount of conscious intention and intellectual activity. It
is therefore natural that the intensest and most abnormally enhanced
feeling should exclude the possibility of rhythmical movement.
Exalted joy and violent despair are in their external manifestations
not only inharmonious and ungraceful, but also unrhythmic.[142] But
by subjecting the expression to the yoke of a fixed time order we
may succeed in harmonising it. And while the regular recurrence of
intervals facilitates our movements—which thereby gain in ease and
gracefulness—the vehemence of our feeling will be abated. Thus it is
possible that although rhythm powerfully reinforces musical or dramatic
excitement, it may at the same time exercise a restraining influence
on hypernormal feeling. And its effects in music and dance show us, in
the simplest and most comprehensive of all examples, the importance
of artistic form. The musical katharsis or relief to sensation always
involves stimulation, but it may nevertheless affect us as a sedative.
The more the form-element and attention to form gain in prominence,
the more effectual also is the relieving influence of art. Where the
stimulative element is predominant in a work of art, there the relief
is less complete.

This contrast, which can be observed at all stages of artistic
development, is eminently conspicuous in ancient art, where high and
low forms are often to be found in close juxtaposition. The superiority
of Greek music over Phrygian music was a favourite topic of the old
writers on art, and the legend of the contest between Apollo and
Marsyas served as a mythological variation on the same theme. Lyre and
flute stood as symbols for two different classes of art, of which one
was violent, orgiastic, and barbarous, while the other was calm in its
Olympian serenity.[143]

But the contrast expressed in these parables by the ancient authors
and some of their modern followers is not so sharp in reality. Even
the lively notes of a flute may, to use the old metaphor, by their
bound time exercise a kind of restraining influence on the passions.
And on the other hand the sedative power of soft music is by no means
so great as has often been contended. While acting hygienically as
a cure for excess of passion or sorrow it cannot produce any moral
result properly so called. As M. Combarieu has pointed out in his
acute criticism of Cardinal Perraud’s _Eurythmie et Harmonie_, it is
an incontestable fact, which has only too often been overlooked by
Platonising philosophers, that even the most immoral feelings may be
expressed in perfect melody.[144] The musical, and still more the
merely rhythmical, form cannot change the quality of these feelings; it
can only deprive them of their dangerous intensity. The mental state
thereby gains in pure and unmingled pleasure; it becomes ennobled as
enjoyment, but it is by no means moralised, at least not according to
modern views. It is only from the standpoint of a purely hedonic system
of ethics that music, or any other art, can be said to exercise an
immediate moral influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

When trying to summarise our researches on the differences between
artistic and non-artistic expression of emotional states in a
comprehensive conclusion, we are again led to that eminently
illustrative instance—the Bacchantic condition of the ancient Maenads.
We have seen that in their description of Dionysiac mania the classical
authors enumerate almost all the various orgiastic manifestations which
can be found in all periods in different parts of the world. And if
ancient literature affords us an epitome of the various expedients to
which the expressional impulse resorts in its endeavour to enhance and
relieve an emotional state, the force of this craving for expression,
on the other hand, nowhere appears with such convincing clearness as in
the Dionysiac monuments of classical art.

The frieze around the Bacchic candelabra in the Louvre proves
better than any psychological analysis to how great a degree the
Dionysiac state is alloyed with pain and the longing for relief. If
these Maenads be compared with the figures on the great vases in the
British Museum and with the various Agave reliefs, it will still more
conclusively appear that it is real distress which compels the dancers
to seek in ever-increasing excitement deliverance from the burden
of their feelings. No movement could be more eloquently expressive
of the corresponding psychical state than the peculiar toss on the
head and the backward curve of the upper trunk which can always be
recognised in the most violent of the dancers. An approach to this
attitude (“opisthotonos”) sometimes appears, as Spencer remarks in
his essay on the Physiology of Laughter, in movements of great joy,
which has not been able to find expression by the usual channels of
discharge.[145] But there is no doubt that, however pleasurable the
quality of the original state may have been, its tone must have been
radically transformed before it could produce these strained postures.
A feeling which distorts the body by its efforts to find relief, which
is not satisfied with the wild cries, the dances, and all the madness
of the Bacchic intoxication, must in its abnormal exaggeration be
perceived as a pain. The pathological character of this feeling appears
further from the fact that the very same movement may be observed in
Pierre Breughel’s paintings of hysteric patients and in M. Charcot’s
photographs from La Salpétrière.[146] And this same backward toss of
the head may be seen in sculptures of witches, the mediæval Bacchantes,
where it sometimes gives an impression of proud and insolent defiance,
sometimes one of profound melancholy.[147] But in the reliefs
representing Bacchic orgies, side by side with the dancers whose
distorted attitude and violent movements betray the pain underlying the
appearance of revel and riot, there may always be seen the figures of
women moving with easy and graceful step. The freedom of their motion
shows that they at least have found deliverance from the oppression
of overstrung feeling. The nervous tension which in their companions
manifests itself in unrhythmic, inharmonious leapings and withings, has
in their case found relief and given place to a feeling of rest and
calm. This expression of peace in their faces, attitudes, and draperies
affords an instructive comment on the Greek notion of Dionysos, the god
of music, who, with all his wildness is none the less able to still the
tempests of overpowering feelings.

This god of music, as conceived by those who gave him a place among the
Olympians, was not a symbol of dissolute pleasure. On the contrary,
the myths tell us how those who oppose his ritual themselves fall
victims to a mania even more violent than the Bacchic frenzy itself.
His devotees, on the other hand, receive from the stirring notes of
his flute and cymbals a determinate form and mould for their otherwise
vehement and irregular expression-movements. Their joy loses its
defiant and barbaric character, their black despair is dissolved into
gentle sadness. Rightly, therefore, was Dionysos saluted as a deliverer
when, with his merry crew, he marched from village to village. Like him
art moves among men, ennobling their joy and blunting the edge of their
sufferings.




                              CHAPTER IX

                            THE WORK OF ART


According to an old theory the classical drama originated in the
Dionysiac cultus.[148] The artistic development of savage and barbarous
tribes supplies many analogies which strongly support this view. The
simplest drama and the most primitive poetry have in most nations
been connected with orgiastic rites which, from the psychological
point of view, closely resemble the Bacchic ceremonies. But we may go
still further. It has been contended on good grounds that even the
formative arts made their earliest appearance on the occasion of great
public festivals.[149] It might seem that if this view could only be
corroborated by a sufficient body of ethnological evidence, there would
be no need of any further argument in favour of the emotionalistic
interpretation of art. Granted that the simplest manifestations of
all the different arts served primarily as means of heightening a
festive mood, then the psychological origin of the artistic activity
ought to be ascertained by an analysis of high-pitch feeling. The same
mental causes and conditions which called forth the most primitive
manifestations of art, and determined their character, may naturally
be assumed to have influenced in greater or less degree the higher
forms as well. And thus in further support of our view we might simply
refer to the study of a typical exaltation with which the preceding
chapter was concluded.

We have here an apparently easy solution of the problem before us.
But by resorting to it we should expose ourselves to the risk of
mistakes which is inherent in every historical method. Not only is
it impossible, as has already been remarked, to make any positive
assertion as to the purely æsthetic and autotelic character of a given
manifestation: it is almost equally difficult to quote a rite or
practice the interpretation of which, from the emotional standpoint,
is clear and undisputed. Even the wild antics of the Maenads, in spite
of the numerous analogies to them presented by the diseased mental
states of modern man, have been explained by some archæologists as a
stereotyped ritual. The self-wounding and the tearing up of living
animals have been interpreted as different forms of a sacrificial cult;
the frantic gestures and songs as dramatic representations of ancient
myths.[150] It would require too cumbrous an apparatus merely to state
and criticise existing theories on this point. And even if we could
prove that the Bacchantic manifestations may be explained without
reference to religious or commemorative intentions in the dancers, as
purely emotional activities, grave objections would still remain to be
answered. From the medical point of view it might be maintained that
the Dionysiac state, as well as all analogous conditions among savage
and civilised nations, is a purely pathological phenomenon.[151] By
connecting artistic production with these states we should therefore
expose ourselves to the accusation of treating art as an abnormality.
And it would be of no use to appeal to Nietzsche’s brilliant but
unconvincing defence of the position that the ancient Dionysiac orgies
ought really to be considered as splendid disorders of health and
overflowing vigour.[152]

It is therefore necessary to state explicitly that what we have said
about the Dionysiac state must by no means be taken as referring to
actual historic facts known about the bacchanals. The descriptions of
Euripides and other classical authors are valuable as expressions of
the predominant notions of art quite independently of the reality which
may or may not have corresponded to them. The corybantic mania afforded
to the Greek mind a typical simile by which to illustrate that state
of formless excitement which precedes the artistic creation. In the
mythical descriptions of the melancholia of the Thyiads, and in the
sculptural representations of their dances and extravagances, it was
easy to recognise—more by instinct, perhaps, than by reflection—the
same dissatisfaction and the same longing for fuller and deeper
expression which compels the artist to seek in æsthetic production
compensation for the deficiencies of life. And the feeling of
liberation, which in the artist, upon the attainment of artistic form,
supersedes overmastering and inharmonious excitement, seemed explicable
by the analogy of the relief which the mythical Dionysus bestowed upon
his devotees. At a time, therefore, when dancing occupied a prominent
place among the arts, it must have been quite natural to consider the
god of dance and music as an embodiment of the feelings and impulses
of artistic creation. For modern times, however, this poetic parable
has scarcely even an illustrative value. It would be too far-fetched
to treat the simple, lyrical dance and song as a general type of art,
seeing that in real life dancing has long ago been almost entirely
superseded by more complicated forms of artistic activity.

It is, however, only in such direct manifestations as the simplest
song, dance, and poetry that the artistic activity itself is accessible
to our analysis. With regard to those higher forms of art in which
the dramatic and epic elements play an important part, it may indeed
be contended that even they originate in an emotional craving for
expression. And it can be proved, as we have tried to show in the
preceding chapters, that such a theory gives us the best explanation of
the life-preserving influence of artistic creation. But it is not to be
concealed that, as far as painting, sculpture, and the higher forms of
poetry are concerned, this view is exclusively based upon hypothesis.
It cannot be considered as established so long as we have no authentic
information on the feelings and impulses which direct a sculptor or
a painter in his work. The only competent witnesses who can give us
this information—namely, the artists themselves—have generally paid
too little attention to theoretic problems to make any observations on
their own mental states during the task of creation; and even when they
do so they are deterred by a natural sense of propriety from making
any public revelations on a matter which affects their most intimate
emotional life. All the more impertinent would it be for an outsider
to make _a priori_ assertions on the psychical motives for their work.
While entitled to speak with some confidence on the simple, universal
arts, the theoretical observer cannot, with regard to the specialised
crafts, rely upon either experience or sympathetic understanding.
The only safe point of departure is here the objective work. Our
interpretation can be considered as conclusively established only if
we are able to show that the distinctive qualities of the work of
art, as met with in the highest manifestations of art, are such as to
provide some emotional state with the most adequate and most convincing
expression.

The work of art has been the subject of theoretical investigation to
a far greater extent than the artistic impulse. When examining its
distinctive qualities we can therefore constantly avail ourselves
of the researches of earlier writers on æsthetic. There is no need
to search for the problems to be solved nor to justify the scheme
of inquiry. We have to show that our interpretation of the artistic
activity is consistent with the general principles according to which
the value of art-works is estimated. These principles, on the other
hand, can evidently be discovered only by studying the judgments on art
which have been embodied in æsthetical literature. Owing to the mutual
contradictions between the several æsthetic systems, such a study
is indeed not an easy one. But if minor differences are disregarded
it is not impossible to find a common standard on which almost all
writers agree. For while the theories on art, as different from other
departments of life, have been based upon varying philosophical
assumptions, the ideal of excellence in art has, at least in the case
of all real æstheticians, been developed under the influence of a close
familiarity with the best manifestations of living art. Notwithstanding
the ever-varying currents of taste and the individual predilections
which affect even the most impartial judgment, it is thus possible to
point to a common fund of simple and catholic principles of criticism.

As far as the lyrical forms of art are concerned we need not dwell
at any length on the æsthetic requirements which they are generally
expected to fulfil. It is easy to understand that, however one may
explain the purpose of artistic activity and the impulse which leads
to it, the accomplished work of art must always possess some element
of sensual beauty which may attract and hold the attention. If we were
attempting a complete treatment of all æsthetic problems we might
attempt to prove that such qualities appear to a very great extent
as unintentional by-products of artistic expression. The perfect
gracefulness, for example, which forms the distinguishing merit of all
genuine art, is seldom a result of conscious endeavour. As, according
to its nature, pleasure is necessarily accompanied by facilitated
conditions of life, an artistic manifestation will generally be
graceful in the same degree as it expresses pure and unmingled joy.
And even if the feeling which originally called forth a dance, a song,
or a drama is one of pain, its expression will unavoidably acquire
under the influence of artistic form an element of ease. The freedom,
and, still more, the unconsciousness, that characterise the “inspired”
creation may thus clothe with a peculiar grace even the representation
of such mental states as in real life manifest themselves in the
most inharmonious forms.[153] In the same way dignity, the quality
complementary to grace, may be deduced directly from the emotional
conditions of artistic activity.

This explanation does not apply, however, to such special qualities as,
for instance, symmetry and proportion. Neither can it be denied that
these qualities may be of incalculable importance in art as means of
heightening the effectiveness of the work. But we hold that a problem
like that of symmetry belongs to the science of beauty rather than to
the theory of art. By a symmetrical arrangement of its parts, or by a
right proportion between them, an object may indeed become a thing of
beauty; but it acquires an artistic character only in so far as this
symmetry and proportion perform or assist the function of expression.
Even among the most authors who lay most stress on the paramount
importance of form there are few who contend that these abstract
qualities can by themselves bestow the title of art upon a work or a
manifestation.

Quite different is the case of those æsthetic laws which have been
deduced from the arts of description. As the majority of writers on
æsthetic have restricted their attention to works of art in which
nature has been imitated or represented, it is only natural that
artistic merit should be thought to depend on the relation of the copy
to the original. The most simple explanation is undoubtedly that which
is adopted by a large section of the public, viz., that an artistic
manifestation is perfect in proportion as it gives a faithful rendering
of objective nature. For all that has been contended by the opponents
of the realistic movements which predominated in the eighties, we do
not think that many producing authors have been guided in their work
by such narrow notions. In æsthetic literature at least so radical a
realism has been upheld only by a few isolated authors.[154] Ever since
Aristotle’s time it has been laid down that a work of art must be
something other and better than a mere copy. And æsthetic science from
its first beginning has in the main agreed upon the general principles
by which artistic imitation attains perfection. These principles,
formulated with varying clearness in the earlier systems, have found
their most philosophical elaboration in the works of Vischer and Taine.
In his Hegelian terminology the German author puts it that the work
of art must show us, in an æsthetic semblance, the full and whole
presence of an idea which is underlying the things represented. In the
philosophy of Taine, which, by making science its point of departure,
differs so greatly from Hegelianism and yet resembles it so strikingly
in general character, the same thought has been expressed in the
doctrine of dominant qualities.[155] If these criteria are divested of
the technical garb which makes them so inconvenient to handle, they
appear to rest ultimately on a simple observation which may be repeated
in all æsthetic experience. We find in all descriptive art-works a
subordination of qualities supposed to be of inferior importance to
what philosophers of Taine’s school term “la faculté maîtresse.” In
most works too there may be found a relation of the represented thing
to the rest of nature, which in a Hegelian mind may awaken the notion
of a general idea behind the individual phenomenon. But, as we have
already observed, it is a mark of excessive intellectualism to assume
that the desire to discover predominant qualities or hidden ideas is
the impelling force in art-creation. And we shall now endeavour to
show that it is equally one-sided to consider the enjoyment of art
as conditioned by increased intellectual knowledge of individual or
universal phenomena and ideas.

The defects of intellectualistic art-theories are perhaps most manifest
in the system of Taine. Taine himself seems to believe that the
“faculté mère” really exists, and that it can be not only represented
by an artistical treatment of nature, but also discovered by scientific
study; he is consequently unable to make any proper distinction between
the departments of science and art.[156] And, on the other hand, his
own critical studies show us how incompatible is the principle of
dominant faculties with a purely scientific conception of reality.
Too often, in the attempt to deduce every manifestation and every
personality from a determinate, all-explaining and all-conditioning
quality, he loses sight of the rich variety of life, and gains instead
merely a brilliant formula. Thus, however suggestive his criticisms
may be, they are seldom scientifically exact. There is none, however,
of all his admirers who would wish to have anything changed in his
writings on art; for we know that by this very one-sidedness, which
is the source of his scientific shortcomings, he has at the same time
attained his greatest, though perhaps unintentional, triumphs as an
artist.

In illustration of this we need only refer to one instance: his
celebrated description of the lion.[157] Objections may be raised
from the zoological point of view to his selecting the lion as a
representative of animal strength, and from the anatomical point of
view to his deducing its whole configuration from the structure of its
jaws. But it is impossible to deny that precisely by such a one-sided
and exaggerated portrait Taine has succeeded in giving an expression
to his admiration for elementary force better than would have been
possible by a scientifically faithful description. Accordingly Taine’s
lion, in spite of its faults from the point of view of science, remains
a classical illustration of the æsthetic importance of dominant
qualities.

If we try to explain why it is that the subordination of all characters
under one “faculté maîtresse,” although unfavourable to scientific
comprehension, is nevertheless so useful for artistic representation,
we shall be unavoidably led to that distinction between scientific and
artistic purposes which has been overlooked in the intellectualistic
systems of æsthetic. The work of art does not claim to give us, nor
do we expect to receive from it, increased knowledge as to the real
nature or predominant characters of things and events. We only wish to
get the clearest and strongest impression of the feelings with which
an object has been contemplated by the artist. It is therefore to the
psychological conditions for conveying a feeling-state by help of
intellectual mediation that we should look for the explanation of those
laws of artistic composition which Vischer and Taine have interpreted
in a manner exclusively intellectualistic, and therefore unæsthetic.

The desire to fix a passing emotional state—in order to facilitate
either the revival of the same state or its transmission to
outsiders—by help of intellectual elements with which the feelings
have been associated, is not restricted to the purely artistic mental
processes. In religion and in love this endeavour to evade the
transience of feeling is especially evident. And here we may observe
a selection of the intellectual elements and a mode of treating them,
which, although it cannot be called artistic, is nevertheless somewhat
analogous to the selective treatment of nature which takes place in
artistic representation. The institutors of religion have all been
well aware of the fact that it is not immaterial what kind of ideas
and sensations are chosen to embody a feeling. They have understood
how impossible it is to impress an emotional state on the mind by the
mediation of complex conceptions, which, to be fully apperceived,
necessitate a particular activity of the intellectual functions. When
seeking a means of conveying and perpetuating their deepest teaching,
they have always, more instinctively perhaps than by any process of
conscious search, been led to intellectual notions of the simplest
possible kind. A single impression of sight, touch, or even of taste,
may thus, by artificial association, be made the bearer of an emotional
content which could not possibly be conveyed with anything like the
same fulness by a less concentrated medium. In virtue, therefore, of
their very simplicity, the vehicles and symbols of religious ritualism
are the most powerful of all means of emotional suggestion. They offer
us a simple impression which we can easily embrace with our senses,
and by the aid of which we can infuse into our mind a rich complex of
all the moods, such as reverence, ecstasy, and awe, which enter in the
religious state.

In its most abnormally exalted developments love may give rise to a
fetichistic adoration of objects connected with the beloved which
is psychologically analogous to the cults of religion. And the same
tendency to select some single representation or object as vehicle
of a psychical state, which is so manifest in the case of these
high-strung emotions, may also be noticed in connection with feelings
of lower intensity. In all departments of psychical life we may thus
find a corroboration of the assertion, which was already expressed
by Hemsterhuis in his speculations on our desires, which always
aim at “un grand nombre d’idées dans le plus petit espace de temps
possible.”[158] We need only consult our memories—for example, of
landscapes we have seen—to find that the emotional element of the
recollection, our admiration, is always closely bound up with some
single feature of the impression. We may indeed be able to revive the
visual image itself by allowing the mind’s eye gradually to pass along
all its details. But the subjective feelings in which we appropriated
the impression and made it our own will not be resuscitated until we
arrive at one particular detail—a single tree, or perhaps a figure—and
concentrate our attention upon that. The experience of this law of
emotional mechanics teaches us to look with a selective attention on
everything of which we wish to preserve a vivid remembrance. The more
emotional our intuition of a given whole, the greater is always our
desire to concentrate it upon a single impression which supports and
reconstitutes the original vision. The art of arranging great complexes
of intellectual and emotional elements around single focal points, so
to speak, may undoubtedly be greatly developed by exercise. But the
procedure itself does not presuppose any conscious intention. It occurs
almost as an instinctive expedient for escaping the incompatibility
between diffused intellectual attention and strong feeling. On purely
psychological grounds, therefore, we may adopt the aphorism of
Teufelsdröckh: “For the soul, of its own unity, always gives unity to
whatever it looks on with love.”[159]

As the artistic representation of nature, according to our view,
expressly serves the purpose of perpetuating an emotional state, we
should expect to meet with such a unity in every work of descriptive
art. And this assumption may be amply corroborated by reference to
art-history. We need not go for examples to such extreme schools as
that of those modern French painters who endeavour to make every line
in their pictures converge towards a point or a sharp angle. Within
the domain of universally recognised art we may observe how the artist
always tries to create a centre of gravity by accentuating some single
feature in the event, the landscape, or the figure which serves as his
model. The principle is the same as that of which we avail ourselves
when endeavouring to preserve an emotional state in our memory for
future enjoyment. But the procedure must necessarily be somewhat
changed when the task is added of enabling outsiders to partake of the
moods we have experienced. It is not then a matter of indifference
which particular detail of a complex impression we single out as
focal, and in which way we arrange the bulk of the impression around
this focus. Indeed, any random quality, if it is given prominence and
emphasis, may serve as a means of attracting attention to the work.
But if one wishes to impart to spectators the exact emotional mood, of
which a given fragment of nature acts as a representative, it is not
sufficient to attract the attention of the spectators. We must also
induce the spectators to look upon the whole of our model from our
point of view. Instead of the casual connection by which in our own
mind emotional memories may be bound up with some single sensation
memory, we must try to introduce a causal connection which persuades
the outsider to agree with our choice of the focal quality. The
features selected for accentuation are to be made central, not only in
the technical, but also in the logical sense. Figuratively speaking,
it is not enough that the lines in a picture should converge towards a
certain part; this part must also appear to the spectator as the one
in which all other parts have their cause and their explanation. Thus
the artistic imitation of nature will necessarily be connected with a
search for a predominant quality, and an endeavour to represent this
quality as a “faculté mère.” The things and events which are selected
for the embodiment of a given emotional state become displayed in such
a way that their whole being appears to be derived from the one quality
which is most suited to represent this emotional state. The imitation
is transformed into a construction, or rather reconstruction, by which
objective nature is adjusted so as to harmonise with the subjective
point of view.

Such a process of adjusting nature to the requirements of emotional
transmission need not always lead to any definite and concrete work of
art. It may also, as an unrealised tendency, accompany our intuition.
And it is only by virtue of this creative element that the feeling for
nature may be placed on a level with artistic production. If we are to
explain, with Richard Wagner, the æsthetic attention of the layman as
the result of a natural poetic gift (“Natürliche Dichtungsgabe”), we
cannot possibly—as he does—base the artistic value of this attention
on the fact that it is “concentrating” and “isolating.”[160] For so
is necessarily every emotional way of looking at things. Artistic
treatment of nature, on the other hand, whether abortive or carried to
completion, always involves an endeavour to make the concentrated and
isolated view acceptable to others. As we cannot explain the creation
of concrete works of art without reference to a craving for social
expression, so we cannot distinguish the artistic from the non-artistic
intuition without assuming a tendency—unconscious and unintentional
it may be, but none the less powerful—to socialise the emotional
content, which is connected with a given intuition. The potential poet
or painter, whose embryo work is bound to remain for ever a fact only
of his own experience, is seldom apt to realise the purpose of his
endeavour; he is not aware that he is composing a poem or a picture
for himself as spectator or audience. Instinctively, however, he
pursues in the adjusting of his intuition an end which is essentially
similar to that of the actually creating artist. In both these cases
of creation the impelling motive is, we believe, an emotional one. And
in both cases the creative activity aims at making an emotional mood
independent of the accidental and individual conditions under which it
originally appeared. Instead of an intuition, the emotional content of
which is concentrated in a conventional symbol, comprehensible only to
the initiated, or in arbitrary centres of association, significant only
for those by whom they have been selected, the artistic imagination
tries to construct an intuition which, if embodied in external form,
would by its own force impress itself, with all its accompanying
emotional elements, upon any spectator. It tends, in short, whether
consciously or unconsciously, to perpetuate and to transmit a complex
of feeling.

We may now understand why it is that the artistic activity has so
often been interpreted in an intellectualistic spirit. The search
for an all-conditioning and all-explaining “faculté mère” by the
help of which to convey in the most forcible way a representation of
things and events, may, of course, easily be taken for an endeavour
to discover the real nature of these things and events. And, in point
of fact, every artist who has a true and keen eye for nature and life
will necessarily light upon qualities which, while affording the most
appropriate centre of gravity for his representation, are, also in
the intellectualistic sense, explanatory of the subjects represented.
By making every feature of his model converge towards this selected
quality, he may thus produce an imitation which, even if it deviates
from the visible reality, may appear truer than this reality itself. In
proportion as his representation thus convinces us of its conformity
with the actual or essential nature of things, it will, other things
being equal, elicit a readier response from the spectator. It is only
natural, therefore, that the very works which have exercised the most
powerful influence on mankind should afford apparent support to the
views of intellectualistic philosophers. Nor can it be wondered at
that critics, in apportioning censure and praise, have attached so
great an importance to the degree of exactness with which a work of art
represents things or ideas.

Such an attitude on the part of art-judges becomes the more explicable
when one takes into account the historical conditions under which the
several forms of descriptive art have developed. Poetic and pictorial
representation have both been extensively used for intellectual
purposes. And it cannot be expected that the essential aims of artistic
activity—as they appear to us when we theoretically distinguish this
activity from other forms of life—should be clearly comprehended as
long as the concrete works serve a non-æsthetic purpose. In proportion,
however, as more exact and convenient methods replace the poetic and
pictorial means of thought-conveyance, art will become freer to realise
its own ends and consequently be judged more and more on its intrinsic
merits. As rhythmic form and rhyme gained in distinctly artistic
character from the time when the invention of systems of writing
relieved them from the mnemonic task of preserving a record of events,
so an æsthetic emancipation of the formative arts will necessarily
follow as a result of increased efficiency in the mechanical means of
recording sights. And in point of fact recent movements in art have
already shown us how painting has grown more conscious of its essential
aims, from being compelled to give up competition with instantaneous
photography.

It is only the most narrow forms, however, of naturalistically
imitative art that are thus made superfluous by scientific inventions.
Those artists whose aim is, not to attain the level of nature by
servile imitation, but to rival it by idealisation, will always be
able to point to their task of representing _essential_ qualities as
one which remains for ever a prerogative of artistic production. But
there are other signs which make us believe that even this form of
intellectualistic purpose will gradually lose importance for creators
as well as for spectators. The currents of thought which now prevail
are scarcely such as to favour the continuance of professedly or
covertly metaphysical doctrines of art. And even if philosophical
opinion, which, after all, only has to do with the secondary
justification of feelings and impulses, had remained unchanged ever
since Hegel’s time, the changes which have taken place in the very
personality of modern man could not but exercise an important influence
on the production and estimation of art.

The intellectualistic illusion that every artistic representation
has something to teach us about the essential nature of the things
represented, can only arise on condition of there being a certain
agreement between the world-view of the artist and that of his
public. It presupposes a certain uniformity in the intellectual make
of the individual creators and spectators. This condition, however,
is fulfilled less than ever in modern life. By the influence of
the increasing division of labour, characters become more and more
differentiated; and these different characters naturally develop
different ways of looking at things. The deviations from actual
nature which are to be met with in the work of an individual artist
have therefore a poor chance of convincing each individual spectator
that they are in conformity with essential reality, as he is apt to
conceive it from his individual point of view. Instead of the “eternal
truths” so often spoken of in earlier æsthetic literature, we now
read about the “illusions particulières” of the several artists. This
sceptical attitude would of course exclude all vivid æsthetic life
if the motives of artistic production and enjoyment were such as
intellectualistic authors declare them to be. It cannot be observed,
however, that the changed conceptions of art-activity have exercised
any influence on the practice of artists. The same eagerness with which
works were created when they were thought to represent the essential
nature of things is now displayed by those who are endeavouring to
produce works which often do not even pretend to give more than their
personal impressions. And the critical public has shown itself
ready to adopt a corresponding attitude in estimating the value of
artistic manifestations. It no longer lays the chief stress on the
intellectualistic requirement that artistic representation should be
true to nature. It demands before all that the work of art should
give a faithful rendering of the feelings with which the represented
fragment of nature has been comprehended by the artist. Sincerity, as
involving poetical truthfulness, thus becomes the chief claim which is
set up for a work of modern art.

It may be objected that the principles of art-criticism which now
prevail are too closely bound up with a transient movement to
be adduced as proof in a discussion of art in general. When the
contemporary current of subjectivism has been succeeded by new schools
of art, the claim for objective veracity may again acquire greater
importance. We have no desire to contend that such an evolution
would be wholly regrettable. It is impossible in estimating works
of art to put aside all logical and ethical considerations; and
attachment to truth is too ineradicable an ethical instinct not to
influence—consciously or unconsciously—our æsthetic judgments. But
although it is neither possible nor desirable to exclude regard for
intellectualistic elements, it may be theoretically advantageous to
emphasise the distinct character of the æsthetic judgment. Modern
criticism, as it has developed under the influence of modern subjective
art, exhibits, we believe, the essentially artistic way of enjoying and
estimating art. Although this attitude, owing to different influences,
has been now more, now less, strictly maintained in various periods of
art history, it has always been adhered to by all who enjoy art for
its own sake. Whenever we regard a work of art without any secondary
motive, we are not concerned with the objective realities which it
depicts. We are not interested in the historic Laura whose praises we
read in a poem. For all we care she may in reality have been lame, and
red-haired, and hump-backed. We are quite contented if we receive a
faithful impression of the beauty with which she charmed her poet.

When it has been proved that the rules governing the artistic
adjustment of reality, which have been stated and vindicated on the
basis of intellectualistic theories, may be equally well deduced from
an emotionalistic interpretation, the argument can easily be extended
so as to cover the principles governing the selection of subjects and
motives for artistic representation. It is required in the Hegelian
æsthetic that every single phenomenon which is represented in a work
of art should suggest the presence of a greater and more universal
idea.[161] In Goethe’s theory of style in art we meet with the same
claim—which is closely connected with his general philosophy of
nature—that every individual form or movement should have something to
tell us about the world-process.[162] And when Taine tries to lay down
a scale of gradation for the relative value of works of art, he assigns
the highest place to those works in which the qualities exhibited
are, firstly, as remarkable and essential as possible, and in which,
secondly, these remarkable and essential qualities have been made as
predominant as possible.[163] It can easily be seen that the reasoning
which is here applied to the choice between different things is exactly
the same which was used with regard to the different features of
the same thing; and the psychological interpretation is, therefore,
also the same in both cases. As the craving for the fullest and most
adequate expression of an emotional state influences the artist in his
representation of a given fragment of nature or life, so this craving
must also influence his selection of the model to be represented. Owing
to variations in temperament and æsthetic predilections the relative
significance of these two aspects may be differently estimated in
different art-schools. But the main principle cannot be invalidated
by the fact that, for example, in French art and French æsthetic the
definiteness is emphasised at the cost, perhaps, of richness, while
in English art suggestiveness is often allowed to make up for lack of
concentration.[164] A catholic theory must necessarily account for all
the varying æsthetic ideals which have influenced artistic production.
Although it must be considered as essentially non-æsthetic to contend,
as Mr. Ruskin did at one time, that “that art is greatest which conveys
to the mind of the spectator by any means whatsoever the greatest
number of the greatest ideas,”[165] it must, on the other hand, be
admitted that an individual thing is adequate as a means of conveying
the fulness of feeling only if through this individual thing there can
be suggested a multitude of other things recalled and represented.

Without assuming the philosophical principles from which Taine has
derived his theory of the ideal in art, we may therefore understand
and accept his scale of gradation of the relative value of works of
art. And similarly we may interpret in an emotionalistic way all
the rules of artistic composition and of conventionalising treatment
of nature which have been proposed by intellectualistic authors on
æsthetic. The nude figure in painting and sculpture, as well as the
simple mythological themes in poetry and literature, will thus for
ever retain their pre-eminence as subjects of artistic treatment. But
this pre-eminence does not depend for its justification upon the fact
that they give us an incarnation of the philosophical notion of the
ideal man. It is sufficiently accounted for by their power of conveying
a fuller and richer emotional content than any individually defined
motive. Thus it can be explained why even spectators who have almost
completely outgrown—or, if the expression is preferred, have fallen
away from—idealistic ways of _thought_ are nevertheless ready to
appreciate the idealistic _feeling_ in the art of Puvis de Chavannes.

It cannot be denied, however, that those motives which in the Hegelian
æsthetic are considered as beautiful _par excellence_ have been
relatively neglected in modern art. To some extent this circumstance
may be explained by the notion which is gaining more and more ground
in the public mind—to wit, that in every single phenomenon we may
see a _résumé_ of the whole process of evolution. For it is evident
that a spectator who has once adopted this philosophical way of
looking at things may find even a well-represented piece of still-life
quite as rich and æsthetically saturated as a painting of the most
universal motive. A more important cause, however, is to be found in
the fact that modern art, when endeavouring to convey large and full
contents by single vehicle-impressions, has learned to avail itself of
vehicles which cannot, properly speaking, be called either typical or
representative. In literature especially we may observe that authors
dwell with instinctive predilection on the description of scenes and
events which open our eyes to large views behind them. It would be
impossible to characterise all such favourite motives as beautiful; it
is also often difficult to show that there is any general idea embodied
in them. But they have invariably the quality of being emotional
centres, in which a multiplicity of feelings and sensations has been
united. By this quality they become apt to serve the purposes which are
essential to the artistic craving; and by the same quality they satisfy
the requirement of fullest possible enjoyment which is made by the
spectator. What we demand of the perfect work of art is—to resort to an
often-used image—that it shall be as a shell, which we may lift in our
hand and bring to our ear, but in which, notwithstanding its smallness,
we may hear the roaring and singing of the sea.




                               CHAPTER X

                        OBJECTIONS AND ANSWERS


If the preceding discussion has been to any degree convincing, the
reader may perhaps have put to himself a question which has often
presented itself to the author—why no complete æsthetic system has been
based on the psychology of feeling. In recent times some attempts have
indeed been made to deduce the æsthetic value of art-works from their
emotional content.[166] But we do not know of any comprehensive theory
in which all the distinctive features of art had been consistently
explained by reference to an emotionalistic principle. This fact is
so much the more remarkable as the importance of feeling has been at
least accidentally acknowledged by some of the greatest writers on
æsthetic, such as, for instance, Taine and Ruskin.[167] It cannot have
been without some reason that these authors have refrained from basing
their art-theories on the notion of a craving for expression,—which
would have provided a clear line of demarcation between æsthetic
and non-æsthetic activities,—and have instead explained art as an
intellectual function, which appears confused alternately with
scientific, philosophic, and ethical activity. An attempt to trace the
causes of this attitude will contribute to a further elucidation of the
emotionalistic theory of art.

It may be contended with some appearance of truth that as soon as
authors, who are themselves artists, have pronounced their opinion on
the purposes of their own art, those who are not artists have no call
to continue the discussion. But this would be to overlook the fact
that the pure artist, as well as the purely artistic activity, must be
considered as an abstraction. The bent of Goethe’s genius, for example,
was perhaps by nature quite as much towards science, particularly
philosophy, as towards art. Thus, although an artist may himself
lay the chief stress on the intellectual or ethical elements in his
work, his opinion should not induce us to give up the purely æsthetic
criteria which we need for the theoretical definition of art-production
as an activity to itself.

It is again only natural that intellectualistic elements should
occupy the foremost place in the practical art-ideals which artists
place before themselves and each other. Technical perfection is the
only quality which can be consciously and intentionally aimed at. In
works, therefore, which, like Herr Hirth’s _Physiologie der Kunst_,
are written from the point of view of the executive artist, this
quality has received special attention.[168] For those who teach it or
learn it, art must unavoidably appear as being chiefly a power and a
skill. But for the theoretical observer it is evident that no kind of
technical accomplishment, however wonderful it may be in itself, can
impart to a work that purely æsthetic merit, art-value. The differences
in the opinions of artists and theorists may therefore to a great
extent have their ground in the different aspects of art, differently
emphasised by either side to suit its own purposes.

It may, however, be objected that in the case of many artists and
æstheticians it has been more than a negative cause which has deterred
them from the emotionalistic interpretation. Goethe’s zealous
championship of the intellectualistic elements in art was no doubt
part of his crusade against prevailing sentimentalism.[169] There
are many expressions in the æsthetic writings of Schiller which in
their exaggeration would appear quite incomprehensible if we did not
take into account the polemic position which he maintained towards
the romantic currents in art.[170] In more recent times the reaction
against the sentimental ideals has given rise to theories which are
still more intellectualistic than the maxims of German classicism. By
their dislike of that art which exhibits all the personal and most
intimate emotions of the artist, the French Parnassians have been led
to deny completely the part of feeling in all genuine art; and the
mere existence of such a poetic school may be thought to prove the
inadequacy of the interpretation of art which has been put forward in
the preceding chapters.

The noblest expression of the personal pride that compels the artist to
conceive his production as a purely intellectual function may be found
in Leconte de Lisle’s sonnet “Les Montreurs,” where the poet refuses
to be a beggar for the gross pity or laughter of the crowd.

    Dans mon orgueil muet, dans ma tombe sans gloire,
    Dussé-je m’engloutir pour l’éternité noire,
    Je ne te vendrai pas mon ivresse ou mon mal,
    Je ne livrerai pas ma vie à tes huées,
    Je ne danserai pas sur ton tréteau banal
    Avec tes histrions et tes prostituées.[171]

Nothing could indeed be further from our intentions than to enter the
lists against the so-called Parnassian ideas. At a time when intimate
confessions seem to be the most sought-for things in literature, we
have reason to value every appeal to the dignity of the artist. But
it is only a confusion of ideas which can lead any one to think that
this dignity would be in any way infringed by the adoption of an
emotionalistic art-theory. We have been especially anxious not to be
misunderstood on this point, and this is the only reason why in the
preceding chapters we have taken so much pains to disentangle the
psychology of feeling, especially the relation between simple feeling
and emotions. The word feeling, as it is used colloquially, generally
involves only the fully formed emotions, especially those which are
painful. Owing to this narrow and inadequate usage, every one who
speaks of the importance of feeling for art exposes himself to the
accusation of sentimentalism. But it is sufficient to point out, with
regard to such misconceptions, that even pride, joy, elation, and
all the other pleasurable states, may be quite as emotional as any
sorrow or melancholy. The poem of Leconte de Lisle, quoted above, may
therefore, in spite of all that the author himself may have objected
against such an interpretation, be considered as an expression of
feeling. And we can in the same way point out that in every one of the
most orthodox Parnassian poems some emotional state has been expressed
by the poet and conveyed to the reader. It is only by virtue of this
element that the poems of this school have attained to their high
poetical quality.

Within the department of the pictorial arts want of precision
in the use of terms has given rise to a confusion which is even
greater than that which prevails with regard to poetry. It has been
a natural result of intellectualistic views that in every painting
the subject, the situation represented, has been considered as the
most important element. As the endeavour to give an explanatory
representation of external things and events has been assumed as
essential to the artistic craving, so the essence of the artistic
work, its real content, has been looked for in the things and events
depicted. Especially when paintings are designated by a descriptive
title, spectators will be apt to turn their attention solely to those
situations or impressions which can be subsumed under the title. If
they cannot find any emotional element in the subject, they declare
the whole painting to be devoid of feeling. And for this misconception
they may even find support in the utterances of the artists; for
there are many painters who, fearing lest they might be confused with
the melodramatic sensation-mongers, have emphatically pronounced
their abhorrence of all emotional suggestion. For the unbiassed
observer, however, it is evident that the painter’s joy over a colour
or a nuance, or the melancholy which can be expressed, without
any anthropomorphic element, by a mere relation between light and
shadow, may be as emotional states as those which are embodied in the
humorous or sentimental subjects of genre-painting. Every artistic
representation, whether landscape, figure, or still-life, always
conveys to us some emotional mood of the painter. If this feeling
element has been conveyed in some pictures with greater distinctness
than in others, this fact must not prevent us from acknowledging that
it enters into every kind of art. We do not say, therefore, with
Professor van Dyke, “Art to Phidias was a matter of form; to Titian
a matter of colour; to Corot a matter of feeling;”[172] but we say,
Art to Phidias was a matter of feeling expressed by form; to Titian a
matter of feeling expressed by colour; and to Corot a matter of feeling
expressed by lights.

In the essential unity of all feeling we may thus find the point in
which all forms of art, notwithstanding their different subjects
and materials, have their unity. By laying the chief stress on the
emotional mood which in every work is conveyed from creator to
spectator, we save the trouble of dividing the works into different
classes. We need not then assume any peculiar principle of admiration
for technical skill to explain the enjoyment of Dutch painting or of
Greek sculpture. Nor need we put ourselves to the pains of deciding
whether the subject or the execution is to be considered more
important. The problem of content and form, so much debated throughout
intellectualistic æsthetic, does not exist for the emotionalistic
interpretation, which sees the essence of art in the feeling embodied,
sometimes in a great and important subject, sometimes in some
insignificant feature of nature or life. And the element of technical
perfection becomes acknowledged in its proper light when interpreted
as the indispensable condition for effectually achieving such an
embodiment.

It would be impossible, however, to explain as merely a confusion
of standpoints the fact that certain schools of art have been
considered entirely unemotional. To some extent, no doubt, the
deficient appreciation of purely pictorial art is the result of the
disastrous influence which has, especially in England, been exercised
by prevailing currents of criticism. By systematically diverting the
attention of the public from the essential element in painting, the
leaders of taste may, no doubt, accomplish great things in deadening
the art-sense of nations. But it is scarcely probable that, even if
he knew better than to look for a “story” and literary interest in a
work of pure painting, the general spectator would be able to enjoy
the _état d’âme_ which is expressed in an _intérieur_ of Ver Meer
or a landscape of Whistler. To him a painting the whole subject of
which is sunshine, and the figures of which have no mission but that
of absorbing or reflecting the light, would appear inane and cold.
“Pictorial ideas,” which may represent such a wealth of feeling for
the initiated, are thus to the artistically uneducated devoid of any
emotional content.

Though emphasising as much as possible the unity of art, we are
compelled to admit that the feelings which are conveyed in its higher
and lower forms may be essentially different. While meeting in the
“lower” art of our own and earlier times with an expression of the most
general emotions and instincts which, by the very vehemence of their
pathos, may awaken the aversion of the refined critic, we partake,
in the higher art-forms, of feelings that can be derived only from a
dispassionate contemplation of nature. This difference between higher
and lower manifestations, though especially marked in painting, can be
observed in all forms of art. We have no wish to deny the necessity
of discriminating between these “æsthetic feelings” of the higher
art-forms and the elementary affections, which form the content of the
sentimental, or, as the German philosophers would say, pathological
art. The moods of æsthetic contemplation are, on the contrary, of so
great significance that we can easily understand why they have been
made the basis of so many systems of art-philosophy. From the point of
view of the present work, which does not pretend to lay down a detailed
criterion of perfection in art, but which only aims at explaining the
most general social and psychological aspects of art-activity, it is
necessary to adhere to the element which is common to all art, higher
as well as lower, primitive or barbaric as well as civilised. And we
can only, in passing, indicate the direction in which we believe an
explanation is to be sought for the development of æsthetic attention
and refined art-sense—those great problems which could be properly
treated only in a separate work.

It has been pointed out by several authors on æsthetic, and even
emphasised to excess, that a certain independence of the struggle for
life is a condition for the appearance of a higher art. It is indeed a
current fallacy that art must be the growth of culture and prosperity.
But it is nevertheless incontestable, that the peculiar art-sense, the
artistic intuition _par excellence_, can be developed only in nations
and individuals who—be it by success in the struggle for life, by
advantageous circumstances, or simply by a natural lightheartedness
of their own—have grown superior to care for life’s necessities.
This factor, however, is only a negative condition. By itself mere
independence of wants could never have taught any one to derive an
ever deeper and stronger pleasure from a thing which stands in no
immediate relation to the primary emotions or the primary desires of
the beholder or the artist. The æsthetic education of mankind, its
growth in artistic refinement, could not have been accomplished without
the influence of more positive factors.

In looking for such factors we unavoidably come to that datum which
has been carefully excluded from the present part of our research,
namely, the concrete work of art. Whatever may have been the conditions
of their origin,—whether utilitarian or not,—poems, paintings, and
sculptures must all have occasioned exercise of that interest and
attention which is independent of the most immediate utilitarian
interests. Even if poems, for instance, were written with a purpose
primarily historical, they must have afforded both to the poet and
to his audience the opportunity to consider them as pure works of
art. Just as moral feelings have been gradually developed under the
influence of actions which may originally have been quite non-ethical,
so the refinement of æsthetic sense has been promoted by works of art,
which may themselves have served entirely non-æsthetic purposes.




                              CHAPTER XI

                      THE CONCRETE ORIGINS OF ART


By explaining the art-impulse as a form of social expression we have
accounted for art-creation and art-enjoyment as activities which have
their end in themselves. The emotionalistic interpretation supplied
us with a principle, which we were able to apply to all stages, the
lower as well as the higher, of art-development. Without committing
ourselves to any definite statements as to the purely æsthetic and
autotelic character of the individual works of art, we felt ourselves
to be right in assuming that a desire of “expression for its own sake,”
or rather for the sake of its immediately enhancing or relieving
effects on feeling, may have operated as an art-factor on all stages
of culture, and thus have given an autotelic value even to the lowest
manifestations of art. The driving force in art-creation became
comprehensible by this assumption; and the most distinctive features of
the creation itself could be deduced from this psychological principle.
In attempting, however, to explain the refinement of artistic
attention, we could no longer proceed with purely psychical factors.
We were compelled to appeal to the influence exercised by the concrete
work of art. The psychological demonstration proving inadequate, it was
necessary to supplement it by an historical argument.

It may be thought, however, that in referring to the educative effects
of the work of art we need not desert the domain of a strictly
æsthetic and psychological inquiry. There is nothing improbable in the
supposition that the products of an activity of themselves influence
this activity, so as to bring about gradually a thorough change of its
character. From the expressional impulse, which in the lower stages
of culture gives rise to crude and simple manifestations, there might
thus be derived, by the retroactive effects of these manifestations
themselves, an increasingly refined form of expression. But such a
sequence of tendency, however clear and consistent it may appear at
the outset, cannot possibly be thought of as unsupported by outside
influences. The more we examine it, the more we shall find that the
series of causes is insufficient to explain the series of effects. This
view, to which we are necessarily led by investigating any period of
art-history, forces itself upon us with particular cogency when we turn
our attention to the earliest stages of art-development.

Before the first work of art had been created, the art-impulse as well
as the art-sense must necessarily have been in a very undeveloped
state. The æsthetic cravings cannot possibly have gained any
consciousness of their purposes ere they had realised themselves in
some objective works. Of these objective works, on the other hand, it
is only the simplest forms that can be derived solely from the pure
art-impulse. We may consider a lyrical dance, or even a lyrical song,
as direct outbursts of an emotional pressure, which, if unrelieved,
would prove dangerous to the system. But we can scarcely imagine that
any human being should be able to invent, say, a fully formed drama
simply in order to convey in the most efficacious manner the feeling
by which he is dominated. And it is yet more difficult to understand
how the craving after social expression could have created, merely for
its own satisfaction, such highly developed art-forms as painting and
sculpture. While we are able to derive the mental compulsion which
forces the artist to production, and the æsthetic qualities which give
their distinctive character to his productions from the psychological
notion of the art-impulse, we are compelled to look elsewhere for the
origin and development of the concrete technical medium of which he
avails himself in fulfilling his purpose.

As in this investigation we are no longer concerned with the abstract
and ideal work of art, it seems that we may now reasonably appeal
to those theories which we before found inadequate only because
they did not account for the purely æsthetic qualities of artistic
activity. The play-impulse, the impulse to attract by pleasing, the
imitative impulse, etc., although they give us no information as to
the essentially artistic criterion, may nevertheless have called into
existence works and manifestations which fulfil the requirements of
the several art-forms. Man may have composed dramas, may have painted
pictures, may have made poems, in play, or out of the desire to please,
or out of the inborn taste for mimicry. In particular the play-impulse
must, as we have already admitted in the first part of this work, be
dealt with as a factor of incalculable importance in the history of
art. In his conclusive researches on animal and human play Professor
Groos has succeeded in showing that the chief classes of art-forms
are already foreshadowed in the various forms of experimentation—that
most general and most important kind of play which can be observed
not only among children, but even among the higher animals.[173] In
the outcome of this simple and common activity we have, it may be
said, a sufficient bulk of raw material of which the art-impulse, when
once fully developed, can avail itself in order to fulfil its own
essentially artistic purposes. And it would therefore seem as if there
were no further problem to be solved with regard to the evolution of
art.

Adherents of this view may, moreover, point to the fact that, apart
from all the motive factors represented by the various non-æsthetic
impulses, the development of art has been favoured by influences of
a more passive or static character. It has evidently been of vital
importance to the evolution of architecture and decoration that things
of useful nature have provided these arts with a kind of concrete
frame within which to display their manifestations. The effects of
this material condition are so much the greater because with his
constitutional conservatism man—whether civilised or primitive—always
allows himself to be bound by old forms long after he has relinquished
the technical procedures which have originally called these forms into
existence. By the scientific “biological” researches on decorative art
it has been conclusively shown how great a portion of the ornamental
“store” consists of lines and combinations of lines which have quite
automatically been borrowed from an earlier technique. Decorative
motives, which to the uninitiated observer appear as products
of spontaneous artistic activity, thus reveal themselves to the
historical student as unintentional by-products of work. Where earlier
investigators assumed an æsthetic composition, modern researches
refer to the force of mental inertia and the cravings of expectant
attention.[174]

There is no intention here to undervalue the methods which are nowadays
employed in the study of decorative art, and which, indeed, the writer
himself has endeavoured to apply in some earlier studies on art-theory.
In the present research, however, it would be inappropriate to trace
in detail the evolution by which forms originating in mere utility—as
in basket-work—are gradually transformed into patterns or other
artistic decorations; for this process, however fertile in effects it
may be considered, cannot account for that phenomenon which, above
all, constitutes the main object of our investigation. Although the
psychical causes adduced above undeniably have called into existence
some of the most familiar ideas in decoration, they cannot possibly
explain the importance which decoration itself has attained in the
various human societies. And the same remark evidently applies to all
the other psychological sources from which art may be derived. The
play-impulse, for example, no doubt suggests a concrete source, but it
can in no way explain the important position which art occupies as a
leading factor in social life. In order to understand why even in the
lowest stages of development art has been acknowledged as a purpose
worthy of being seriously pursued, we must investigate this activity
in its connection with the most important biological and sociological
purposes of life.

We propose in the following chapters to examine the most powerful
non-æsthetic factors that have favoured the origin and development of
the several art-forms. And while we are keeping in view especially
such utilitarian requirements as those of intellectual information,
of stimulation for work or war, of sexual propitiation or of magic
efficiency, we shall be compelled to leave out of consideration all
distinctively æsthetic factors and conditions. Accordingly we shall
not be able to maintain in this historical and ethnological inquiry
the strictest æsthetic distinctions. But we hope that the unavoidable
vagueness in our terminology will not obscure those limitations and
demarcations which have—perhaps even too laboriously—been laid down
in the first part of this work. To preserve consistency between our
inquiries into the abstract and the concrete origins of art, it
need only be stated, once and for all, that the several works and
manifestations, as they are to be treated hereafter, are, strictly
speaking, only the raw material of art, if art is to be considered in
the purest sense as an autotelic activity.




                              CHAPTER XII

                          ART AND INFORMATION


It is well known that, in the earlier classical times, philosophy,
history, and science were inseparably connected with poetry. And it
is as familiar a truth that pictographs and ideograms were used for
writing before phonetic signs had been invented. But it is not enough
to recall that poetry and the arts of design have in this way been
serving the requirements of intellectual information; it can also be
shown that among primitive tribes every one of the lower art-forms—the
dance, the pantomime, and even the ornament—has been of great
importance as a means of interchanging thoughts.

When attempting in this chapter to take a cursory survey of the
various art-forms as used for purely intellectual purposes, we find
it most advantageous to start with the dramatic examples. It is true
that the art of the theatre, in the modern sense of the word, must
be considered as a late, perhaps even as the very latest, result of
artistic evolution. A literary drama, which fulfils all the claims of
a work of art, is possible only on a highly advanced level of culture,
and it has consequently by most authors on æsthetic been considered
as the latest of all art-forms.[175] When dealing, however, with the
productions of primitive tribes, we have to adopt a lower æsthetic
standard. Although we do not meet with any tragedies, nor even with
any real comedies, at this stage of evolution, we can at least point
to the fact that simple farces, pantomimes, and pantomimic dances
are to be found among tribes which have so far been unable to create
any kind of epics, and whose lyrical poetry is restricted to a few
rhythmical phrases with no intrinsic meaning. And if we use the word
in its widest sense, so as to include every representation by action,
drama can be spoken of as the very earliest of all the imitative arts.
It was certainly in use long before the invention of writing, either
by pictures or letters; perhaps it is even older than language itself.
As an outward sign of thought, action is more immediate than words.
Dramatic communication does not even presuppose any conscious intention
nor any common consent. It may appear on the side of the “speaker” as
the unchecked result of the “Einhaltsstreben,” the universal impulse to
put into gesture any idea of action which is distinctly conceived—for
instance to clench the fist at the thought of striking—and it may be
comprehended without any effort by the audience, which by unconscious
imitation partakes of the communicated thoughts.[176] Such pantomimic
forms of intellectual exchange seldom indeed occur in civilised life.
The “Einhaltsstreben” in a civilised man is generally lost during the
transfer from thought to word. Pantomimic display, which involves
an unnecessary waste of force and time, was doomed to disappearance
with the growing development of conventional language. Moreover, the
rules of propriety tend to confine, at least in educated society, the
language of the body within as narrow limits as possible. But as soon
as, by pathological influences, these conditions are annulled, even
civilised man necessarily falls back upon pantomimic language. In the
extreme forms of aphasia we may thus observe how strong the mimetic
impulse is when unchecked. There is the more reason to consider these
pathological instances as in some degree typical of the primeval
methods of communication, as it is only by assuming an earlier
system of impulsive, self-interpreting signs that we can explain the
subsequent development of conventional word or gesture-language.[177]

We cannot, however, argue from cases of mental disturbance as to the
original language of primitive man. For example, even if aphasia could
be considered as a case of atavism,[178] we could scarcely compare the
mimic capabilities of modern man with those of the unknown, wordless
being whose system of expressive signs, although he were compelled to
rely exclusively upon it, cannot possibly have been brought to any
great degree of perfection. Illustrations from deaf-mutes and from the
isolated specimens of “homo sapiens ferus”—Mr. Kipling’s Mowgli—are for
the same reason inadequate.[179] As long as ethnology is ignorant of
any wordless tribes, our notions as to the assumed dramatic language
rest entirely upon psychological deductions.[180] But the probability
of these deductions is, more or less, supported by what we know about
the lowest tribes now existing. It is true that the information on
this point is even more inconsistent than is usual in ethnological
evidence. But although due allowance must be made for the errors into
which a deficient knowledge of the primitive custom and languages has
led the various authors, there will nevertheless remain a sufficient
body of facts proving the important part which pantomimic communication
plays in the lower stages of mental evolution. Bushmen, Australians,
and Eskimos show us a highly developed dramatic language.[181] In some
parts of Australia it has been noticed that the store of gestures
is richest among tribes which have enjoyed the least contact with
Europeans.[182] And a further ground for considering this mode of
thought-conveyance as old and primitive is afforded by the fact that,
according to Mr. W. E. Roth, its “use is strictly enforced on certain
special occasions, such as some of the initiation ceremonies.”[183]
Mr. Fraser also believes that gesture-language is taught at the Bora
ceremonies.[184]

It would, however, be presumption to see in every instance of dramatic
thought-communication a rudiment of an old and primitive language.
There are many causes which favour the adaptation and elaboration
of mimic language even after a system of phonetic signs has been
established. In a passage which has already been quoted Mr. Roth
observes that pantomimic ideograms must be very advantageous “on the
war-path or the chase, where silence is so essential an adjunct to
success.”[185] Another reason still more important is the fact that
pantomimic action can be understood by people who speak different
languages. Among civilised nations we may find many instances of
the high state of development which gesture-language has attained
in border countries where different peoples must necessarily often
meet.[186] And it is significant that among primitive tribes gestures
and motions are nowhere so full of significance and intellectual
expressiveness as on the plains of Australia,[187] among the savages
in the interior parts of Brazil,[188] and on the great prairies of
North America,[189]—in a word, in countries where the breaking up of
a nation into small vagrant tribes has been the cause of an extreme
dialectical disseverance. Under these conditions, however, the
impulsive, self-interpreting pantomime is apt to develop gradually
into an elaborate system of conventional signs. The gesture-language
of the North American Indians, for example, which consists almost
entirely of abbreviated “moves” of indication and delineation, is
no doubt eminently adapted to fulfil the practical requirements of
comprehensibility and explicitness. But it has not much to do with
dramatic art in any sense of the word.

Of a more immediate importance for art-history are the pantomimics
which accompany public speaking. In a state of society where every
member is entitled to take part in the common deliberations, oral
language will often prove an inadequate vehicle of thought. Only
through displaying his speech in action is the chief or the priest
capable of making its purport comprehensible to the large audiences at
a popular meeting. Rhetoric, therefore, is still among many primitive
tribes what it used to be in classical antiquity—a dramatic as well as
a literary art.[190]

A pantomime will, of course, by virtue of its greater vividness, convey
its content of thoughts and feelings with a far greater efficiency than
a merely spoken oration. It may, when especially infectious, induce
the audience to join in it as a dramatic chorus. And even when the
imitation which it calls forth remains purely internal, this imitation,
nevertheless, enables the spectators to appropriate the text of the
acted oration in a way which is deeper and far more complete than
could ever be possible with regard to an oral speech. As a natural
sign of emotion pantomimic language opens, as Home would say in his
quaint way, “a direct avenue to our heart.”[191] It is no wonder,
therefore, that dramatic performances on all but the highest stages of
culture have been used for political agitation as well as for religious
edification.[192]

We shall in the following pages, when treating of the religious and
political aspects of art, obtain a fitting opportunity of examining
these forms of drama. In the present connection we need only refer
to them as means of further emphasising the utilitarian aspect of
mimic representation in the intercourse between savages. After having
realised how on the lower stages of culture practical advantages as
well as social and religious considerations concur in favouring the
development of this early language, we may understand the surprisingly
high dramatic ability of primitive peoples. But while psychological as
well as sociological reasons thus confirm us in considering dramatic
action as the earliest means of conveying intellectual information,
we are nevertheless compelled to admit that even in primitive stages
the other art-forms also may have served this purpose. In reality
it is impossible to draw any sharp distinction between dumb-drama
and primitive poetry. The pantomimic performance will in most cases
spontaneously supplement itself with a recital, spoken or sung. In the
simple representations therefore of real occurrences which characterise
the lowest forms of narrative art these two means of intellectual
expression generally appear together.

And in this connection one will also meet with an early manifestation
of pictorial art in the form of an extempore design, which serves
to bring out more fully and clearly the content of the recital. The
transition from a delineative gesture to a contour-design is indeed
so direct and easy that it must have taken place even among tribes on
a very low plane of culture. In some instances we can distinctly see
how the one art grows out of the other. Mr. Mallery has described a
dialogue between some Alaskan Indians, in which the left hand is used
as an imaginary drawing board upon which lines are drawn with the index
finger of the right hand.[193] Herr von Steinen has observed that the
natives in Central Brazil, as soon as the gestures prove insufficient
for conveying an idea, fashion an explanatory design in the sand.[194]
These designs are only a projection on a different surface of the
hand-movements with which in their pantomimic language they describe
the outlines of the objects in the air. One is tempted, therefore,
to find in these transferred gestures the origin of pictorial
art. And such an hypothesis seems the more probable as in some
tribes—particularly among the North American Indians—the picture-signs
for denoting things and phenomena have evidently been derived from
the corresponding gesture-signs.[195] But it is, as Professor Groos
cautiously remarks, difficult to know whether any primitive man could
ever have thought of delineating the contours of an object had he not
beforehand possessed some idea of drawing.[196] Without endeavouring
to solve this question of origins, it is sufficient for our purpose
to state that a kind of extempore design, almost as spontaneous and
fugitive as the dramatic art, appears together with the mimic and
poetic representations. And we have now only to devote our attention to
these various means of information in so far as they may give rise to a
manifestation of art, while serving the purely intellectual purpose of
conveying or elucidating a thought-content.

It is only natural that the requirements of practical life should
call into existence various kinds of mimic, pictorial, or literary
information which have little whatever to do with art, even if this
notion is conceived in its widest sense. There is no reason for us to
delay our argument by enumerating pantomimics, gestures, or paintings
which aim at communicating notices of trivial importance, such as
directions about the way to be taken by travellers, warnings with
regard to dangerous passages, etc.[197] Even as a purely technical
product a work is of little interest as long as its subject is so poor
and insignificant. We feel justified, therefore, in restricting our
attention to such manifestations as present in their contents some
degree of coherence and continuity.

The simplest examples of purely narrative art which fulfil the
technical claims of a complete work will of course appear when the
text of the narration consists of some real occurrence which is
represented with all its episodes and incidents. Primitive life
affords many inducements to such relation. The men who have returned
from war, or from a hunting or a fishing expedition, will thus often
repeat their experiences in a dramatic dance performed before the
women and children at home. Although in many cases there is reason
to suppose that even these performances may be executed to satisfy
some superstitious or religious motive, they have undoubtedly, to a
certain extent, been prompted by the desire to revive and communicate
the memories of eventful days. Other incidents that have made a strong
impression upon the minds of the people are in the same way displayed
in pantomimic action. It is sufficient here to refer to the elaborate
dramas “Coming from Town” performed by Macusi children, in which all
the episodes of a journey are reproduced with the utmost possible
exactness,[198] to the Corrobberrees in Queensland, in which incidents
of individual or tribal interests, such as hunting or war adventures,
but only those of recent occurrence, are enacted,[199] and to the
performance in a Wanyoro village, where M. de Bellefond’s behaviour
during a recent battle was closely imitated.[200] At the dramatic
entertainment held before some members of Captain Cook’s expedition an
elopement scene which had in reality taken place some time previously
was performed in the presence of the runaway girl herself. The play
is said to have made a very strong impression upon the poor girl, who
could hardly refrain from tears when she saw her own escapade thus
reproduced.[201] The imitation of the real action was in this case
evidently designed as punishment for the guilty spectator; and as
the piece concluded with a scene representing the girl’s return to
her friends and the unfavourable reception she met with from them, it
tended no doubt to exercise a salutary influence.

This naïve little interlude, with its satirical and moralising vein,
naturally reminds us of those old farces which candidly defined
themselves as adaptations of some “scandale du quartier.”

    Là elle fut exécutée
    Icy vous est representée.[202]

The wordless pantomimes and dramatic dances of the modern savages give
us no information of this kind. But there is no doubt that a closer
investigation would reveal that a great number of the comical and
heroical episodes which, are described in ethnological literature have
had their prototypes in some incidents of recent occurrence.

This opinion can only be corroborated by extending our investigation
to the other departments of narrative art. Whatever other merits one
might discover in primitive poetry, its strength does certainly not lie
in invention. When the songs contain any narrative element at all, it
refers to some simple experience of the day. Travel, hunting, and war
afford the themes for the simplest epical poems as well as for the most
primitive dramatic recitals.[203] And any event of unusual occurrence
will of course be made use of by the poets. Travellers who have learned
to understand the languages of the natives they sojourn with have
often observed that their own persons have been described in impromptu
songs.[204] Sometimes these songs have a satirical tendency;[205]
sometimes they are composed as glorifications of the white man.[206]
But there is no need to assume either of these tendencies in every
case. The mere fact of his being a strange and new thing qualifies
the European as a fitting subject for the primitive drama and poetry.
And on the same grounds all the marvels of civilisation—the rifles,
steamers and so on—will often be described in poetry.[207] In the
savage mind these unknown facts will easily give rise to the most
marvellous interpretations. For an instance of such apparently
fantastic products of poetic imagination, which in reality have their
origin in an unavoidable misconstruction of an unknown reality, we
need only refer to the description of Captain Cook’s ships in the
Hawaii song, which has been taken down by M. de Varigny. The ships
themselves are spoken of as great islands, their masts are trees, the
sailors are gods, who drink blood (_i.e._ claret), and eat fire and
smoke through long tubes (_i.e._ pipes), and carry about things which
they keep in holes in their flanks.[208] It is but natural to assume
that—if researches on the origins of the subjects were possible—the
seeming richness of invention in many similar poems could be accounted
for by the deficient observation and the faults of memory in uneducated
man. And by such researches the importance of actual experience would
be substantiated even with regard to the art of barbaric nations. As
to the songs of the lower savages, to which we have to restrict our
attention at present, it is, as shown by the above adduced examples,
unnecessary to appeal to this explanation.

Not less ephemeral than the literary subjects are the motives of
primitive pictorial art. In Herr von den Steinen’s account of the Xingu
tribes we can find some most typical examples of such explanatory
designs by which the poetic and dramatic recitals of battles, travels,
etc., are supplemented.[209] Owing to their fugitive character these
simple manifestations can never be reduced to a scientific account. But
there is reason to believe that in all parts of the world pictures have
been drawn in the air or in the sand, of which there remain no more
trace than of the gesture that is over or of the unwritten poem that is
forgotten.

It is evident, however, that in some instances at least there have
remained traces of these ephemeral narrations. The picture might have
been drawn on some piece of bark or cloth instead of on the sand,
the pantomime might have been repeated even after its subject had
lost its actuality, or the text remembered after it had served its
immediate purpose in the narration. The fugitive recital, whether
pictorial, mimic, or oral, which lives only for the moment might in
this way have become a permanent work, conveying the contents of the
narrative to future times. One would think that as soon as such a
means of preserving a record of past events had been, intentionally
or accidentally, discovered, it would have immediately been turned to
account. There is, after all, but one step between the impromptu dance
or poem, which tells of a recent occurrence, and the work of art, which
forwards the memory of the same occurrence to consecutive generations.

Ethnological science shows, however, that this distinction is by no
means a theoretical one only. There are tribes amongst the lower
savages in which the pantomimes and dances refer only to the most
recent events. And if amongst these tribes some pictures or some dances
have been preserved from older times, they appear to be quite isolated
exceptions, the presence of which one is tempted to attribute to
accident rather than design. It is only when we look to a higher degree
of culture that we find a commemorative art, in the true sense of the
word, appearing.

From the point of view of comparative psychology this fact is easily
explained. The distance between an impromptu recital of a recent
occurrence and historical art and literature, as we understand them
to-day, however short it may appear, covers perhaps the most momentous
progress that man has made in his advancement towards culture. Whether
commemorative art is to be considered as retrospective with regard to
something that is past, the memory of which it endeavours to revive,
or as directed towards future generations whom the artist would wish to
make participators of the present, it presupposes a power of conferring
attention upon matters the interest in which is not confined to the
immediate present. No psychologist would include this faculty among
the attributes of those in the lowest stage of mental development.
Ethnological science, on the other hand, shows that it is as yet
lacking in some of the existing tribes of the lower savages. In an
æsthetic research it is of the highest importance to know exactly when
and where this attribute appears. In the general history of art no date
can be more significant than that which marks the commencement of a
larger conception in the mind of the artist of the public for whom he
works, bringing in its train, as it does, wider aims concerning his
work.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                            HISTORICAL ART


It is exceedingly difficult to decide at what precise stage in
the evolution of mankind we can first distinguish signs of a true
commemorative art. It seems pretty evident that the lowest of the known
tribes—such as the Veddas, the Bubis, the Kubus—live exclusively in
and for the present, without any memories or traditions as to their
past. When we turn our attention, however, to tribes in the somewhat
higher condition of culture we find that the statements of travellers
are not at one with regard to this. The Fuegians are said by M. Hyades
to lack any kind of history and tradition.[210] But, on the other
hand, one of their pantomimical dances (or rather dramas) has been
explained by M. Martial, another member of the Cape Horn expedition, as
commemorating the revolt of the men against the women, “who formerly
had the authority and possessed the secrets of sorcery.”[211] The
inconsistency between these two assertions can, however, be explained
by the fact that Hyades evidently had in view only the oral tradition.
The interpretation of M. Martial again seems to be merely hypothetical.
Mr. Bridges, who is more competent than any one else to speak about
this tribe, does not allude to any commemorative element in the “Kina,”
although even he thinks that these plays, in which the parts were
formerly acted by women, are old and traditional in their form.[212]

A similar inconsistency in the use of terms has no doubt been the
cause of the conflicting reports on the traditional poetry of the
Greenlanders. In his account of their “Wissenschaften” Cranz says that
they have no heroic songs describing the doings of their ancestors.
But the very wording of this negation—“They know nothing about them
except that they were brave hunters, and slew the old Norsemen”—shows
that it can by no means be adduced to prove complete default of oral
tradition.[213] And in another passage Cranz expressly says that the
Eskimos, at their sunfeasts, praise the feats of their ancestors.[214]

It is more difficult to bring into accord the various statements
concerning the Melanesians. Mr. Codrington sees a distinguishing
feature of this ethnological group in the fact that they, in contrast
to the Polynesians, are conspicuously devoid of native history and oral
tradition.[215] But this rule is evidently subject to at least one
important exception, as the Fijians are known to celebrate subjects
from their legendary history in their choral dance-songs.[216] One
is led to believe, therefore, that in some other island, also of the
Melanesian group, traditional poetry and traditional dramas may have
existed, but escaped the attention of the ethnologists. Negative
statements are never to be unreservedly relied upon, least of all
perhaps in accounts of uncivilised men. The case of the Navajo affords
an instructive and warning example, which falls exactly within the
limits of the present investigation. In spite of the statement by Dr.
Letherman, who is acknowledged to have been a “man of unusual ability,”
that the Navajos had “no knowledge of their origin or of the history of
their tribe,”[217] Dr. Washington Matthews has been able to gather his
imposing collection of historical songs and traditional commemorative
customs.[218]

An incident of this kind is apt to make us sceptical with regard to the
assertion of Captain Cook, which has, however, been unreservedly quoted
by Lubbock and Spencer, that the Maoris, a race noted for old legends
and ancient lore, in 1770 had no recollection of Tasman’s visit to
their island.[219] And one is inclined to doubt the trustworthiness of
Schoolcraft’s informant when he says that the Appalachian Indians had
lost all recollection of De Soto’s expedition.[220] Compared with the
statements concerning the Lenape and the Mohicans, who still remember
Hudson, and the Iroquois and the Algonquins, who preserve traditions
of the first white immigrants,[221] this assertion will, in any case,
lose its force as a judgment upon the whole North American race, in
which sense it has, however, been used by Lubbock.[222] On a closer
investigation the Chinooks will perhaps be also discharged from the
unfavourable verdict passed upon them by Kane, who could never hear any
traditions as to their former origin.[223]

It is safest, therefore, merely to state generally and approximately
that among the lower savages the commemorative element is lost sight
of amid the prevailing _impromptu_ productions. With higher culture
the commemorative inclination appears to become intensified. But its
growth cannot be considered as closely accompanying the general mental
evolution. Whatever great treasures of epical poetry and literature may
some day be found amongst the Melanesians, their relative inferiority
in this respect can never be contested. When a group like this,
notwithstanding its unsurpassed ability in formative art,—which,
however, seems to suggest a commemorative purpose,[224]—can be outdone
in matters of oral history and tradition, not only by the Polynesians
but even, it would seem, by the Australians,[225] there is of course
no possibility of applying the general scheme of evolution to fix the
definite beginnings of commemorative art. _A priori_ assertions do
not count in a question in which the reality defeats the assumptions
of probability in such a surprising manner. Before the ethnological
knowledge becomes more complete no statement as to traditional art can
be accepted as definite.

The scantiness of reliable information does not, however, constitute
the greatest difficulty. The facts themselves, even if their
authenticity is granted, are often liable to the most inconsistent
interpretations. For an exact appreciation of the influence which
the commemorative impulse has exercised on the history of art it is
insufficient to enumerate examples, however many might be found, of
traditionally preserved works of art. The really important thing is
to distinguish works which can be considered as genuine specimens of
historical art, _i.e._ as the outcome of a commemorative intention,
from the mere survivals which resemble these in so confusing a manner.
In almost every artistic manifestation we can read a story of the past.
The tenacity with which the old forms and the old technical procedures
are retained lends a documentary value to every ornament, picture, or
poem. By authors with a predilection for historic interpretations this
record element is apt to be considered as intentionally aimed at. The
euhemeristic view will in this way be applied to the history of art,
with results that are often as extravagant as the mythological theories
themselves. For every detail in a dance or dramatic performance a
reason has been looked for in some event of real occurrence. This
method has its strong and sensible side—and a very sensible one
indeed—in that it does away with the idea of a rich and creative
imagination in primitive man. It can also be applied to with great
advantage for the explanation of artistic manifestation, which would
otherwise be quite incomprehensible.[226] But its use is not, any
more than that of any other general theory, to be recommended as a
master-key to all the mysteries of ceremonialism and ritual art.
The shortcomings of the method are strongly emphasised by the fact
that it has failed in cases which have been chosen expressly for its
illustration.

Foremost amongst the advocates of euhemerism in the study of ceremonial
stands Captain Bourke, who has taken up and extended to the rites and
dramas of the living savages the theory of Higgins, that all ceremonies
of antiquity were created with a view of preserving to the memory
ancient learning and ancient traditions.[227] It would be extremely
unfair to accuse this indefatigable hunter after analogies of a limited
understanding. In questions of ritualistic detail, such, for instance,
as those of the flour-sprinkling customs, his comparative studies
are not only unsurpassed as proofs of learning, but are also full of
valuable and instructive suggestions.[228] The stately array of facts
which he has collected from all stages of culture does not, however,
convince any impartial reader of the correctness of the main assertions
in his books. A student of comparative psychology, for instance, will
always remember the psycho-pathological influences which everywhere and
always tend to provoke the same sort of horrid, scatological orgies, in
which Captain Bourke has seen a commemoration of some old, exceptional
conditions of life.[229] As to the snake-dance at Walpi, which forms
the subject of his earliest great work, it cannot be denied that some
details in the rite and some of the ceremonial paraphernalia are
illustrative of a way of life which presumably predominated amongst the
prehistoric Pueblo-Indians.[230] From the dance one might therefore
reconstruct an epitomised history of the tribe, which would supplement
the tales that are told by the constructional details of the “kiva”
architecture and the decorative adornments of the Pueblo pottery.[231]
But it seems unjustifiable to adduce, as Mr. Spencer has done, this
rite as a typical specimen of commemorative ancestor-worship.[232]
In attempting to explain the origin and the purpose of the rite, the
later investigators have also on good grounds neglected to appeal
to the commemorative intention. As has been conclusively shown by
the consummate researches of Mr. Fewkes, the snake-ceremonials are
mainly and chiefly to be considered as dramatic expressions of the
water-cult, which permeates every department in the life of the
Pueblo-Indians.[233] Through such an interpretation the drama is
brought into close connection with the religious system as well as with
the practical necessities of the Pueblo-Indians. Its significance as
the most important of all the national ceremonies is easily understood,
when the rite in its entirety is regarded as only an active form of the
same prayer for rain, which is pictorially conveyed in the sand-mosaics
and in the painted ornaments of the tribe.[234] Its various details,
on the other hand, will find their most unsought-for explanation
when considered as contributing to the great propitiatory purpose.
Whatever value and interest an euhemeristic interpretation might have
for a student of the prehistoric Pueblo-life, the psycho-sociological
conditions of the rite, so to speak, can be fully comprehended only
when they are investigated in connection with the ideas of ritual magic
and religious propitiation. The same view holds good, we believe, with
regard to almost all the religious ceremonies of uncivilised man,
although it may be impossible to prove it in every individual case, as
the facts themselves generally are entangled in a most exasperating
manner. They must be detached not only from the theoretical
constructions of the anthropologists, but also from the euhemeristic
interpretations of the natives themselves. The native dogmatism will
often be even more misleading than that of the scientists.

It is a well-known phenomenon, which often repeats itself, that when
a higher stage of culture is reached the original significance of a
rite or a custom falls into oblivion. The custom itself, will, however,
with the tenacious conservatism that characterises man, be rigorously
maintained long after its origin has been forgotten. Amongst the lower
savages no other justification of these ceremonies—incomprehensible
to the participants themselves—is necessary than the oft-quoted “our
fathers did so before us.” But with increased intellectual development
there must arise a craving for some reasonable explanation. The
semi-civilised man never cares to admit to how great an extent his
actions are automatical. Hence the rationalisation of rites and
customs,—familiar to every student of Christian theology,—which has its
beginnings even in the higher stages of savagery. The rationalisation
most readily adopted by tribes without developed philosophical or
ethical notions is the historical one. The simple and honest argument
“because our fathers did so” is replaced by the fictitious motive of
keeping up the memory of the doings of the fathers. When once this
reasoning obtains full power it will soon cover the whole field of
ritual life. Every incomprehensible feature in ceremonies or customs
will be explained through reference to the past. And when knowledge
of events falls short of affording such an explanation, popular
imagination will always be prone to substitute itself for the missing
reality.[235] In this way a commemorative excuse can easily be found
for every apparently illogical action in life.

In fact, the creation of “etiological” or justificatory history and
mythology is by no means limited to the department of religious
ritualism. Even more trivial actions, such as games and pastimes, will,
amongst tribes with developed historical tendencies, be connected
with imaginary occurrences, which latter will be found to account for
every detail in such games and pastimes. With the Cherokee Indians,
for example, we find a most intricate animal story, in which the
action of the bat, the eagle, and other creatures closely correspond
to the movements of the different participators in the national
ball-play.[236] Although much may be said in favour of the ingenious
hypothesis of Professor Groos, who suggests that military games, such
as chess and draughts, may have been developed from dramatic narratives
of real battles, supplemented perhaps with maps drawn in the sand and
simple symbols—stones, pebbles, etc.—representing the various armies
and soldiers;[237] and although it may reasonably be assumed that the
beasts in the animal story of the Cherokees represents the _totems_
of some old Indian chiefs,—a story like this must be considered as
secondary, in its details at least, to the play. More artificial
still it sounds when the Moondahs in Bengal affirm that their popular
Easter-game of pushing eggs the one against the other in reality serves
as a means of commemorating the feats of Sing Bonga, who, with a
single hen’s egg, crushed the iron globes of his rivals.[238]

Unfortunately, it is but seldom that the commemorative motive shows its
fictitious nature with so much evidence as in this game. In most cases
there will always be a doubt as to whether the religious drama, poem,
or design was originally intended as a means of conveying knowledge of
some real or legendary event, or whether the idea of these events was
derived from a simple game, a propitiative poem, or a magical design.
We have quoted some instances in which the historical interpretation
is secondary only. But there could easily be adduced other instances
in which the opposite is the case. Ancient poems, whose historical
and legendary character is quite incontestable, may often be used as
charms in magical ceremonies.[239] It seems quite impossible therefore
to pronounce any definite judgment as to priority between myth and
ceremony without special investigation of every single case. In the
department of pictorial art it is scarcely less difficult to separate
the genuinely commemorative elements from the close interweaving of
different motives, which call into existence a work of art.

Foremost in rank amongst all the works of design and sculpture that
have influenced artistic evolution stand the likenesses of a deceased
person which are placed by the relatives on his grave or in his home.
To civilised man it is most natural to look upon these effigies as
tokens of loving remembrance by which the survivors endeavour to
keep fresh the memory of the departed. It is also easy for us to
understand that the pious feelings extended towards such effigies
may acquire an almost religious character. There is something to be
said therefore on behalf of the view that commemorative monuments
have been the predecessors of idols proper. Lubbock, who interprets
Erman’s description of the Ostyak religion[240] in this way, quotes
in further corroboration _The Wisdom of Solomon_, in which work there
is to be found a detailed account of the evolution of idolatry from
memorial images.[241] The probability, however, is that in pictorial
as well as in dramatic art the purely commemorative intention belongs
to the latter stages of culture. It seems in most cases to be beyond
doubt that among the lowest tribes the images serve as paraphernalia
in the animistic rites. They are either taken to be embodiments of
the ancestors’ soul, or receptacles in which this soul, if properly
invoked, might take up its abode for the occasion. And similar
superstitious notions are entertained, not only with regard to the
monuments proper erected on the graves of powerful ancestors, but
also with regard to such minor works as, _e.g._, the dolls which are
often prepared by West African mothers when they have lost a favourite
child.[242] The vague and indistinct character of these images shows
us also that no intellectual record of the individual has been aimed
at. No more than the poetic effusions of regret with which the pious
survivors endeavour to propitiate the names of the deceased, do
these formative works of “pietas” give us any information as to the
personality of him whom they pretend to represent.

This general notion, however, must not be allowed to prevent us from
admitting that among sundry tribes of mankind the images may be
historical. This is asserted with regard to the Bongos by Schweinfurth,
and with regard to the Gold Coast negroes by Cruickshank. The wooden
effigies on the Marquesas Islands are described by Herr Schmeltz as
“constructed in memory of celebrated members of the tribe.”[243] The
Melanesian sculptures also, according to Codrington, are chiefly
commemorative. It must be observed, however, that according to his own
description a sort of religious respect is paid at least to some of
them.[244] More undeniably commemorative examples are to be found in
New Zealand. Although no attempt to reproduce likenesses is made in
these colossal wooden statues, they nevertheless more nearly approach
the idea of monumental commemorative portraiture than any similar
works of primitive art. The patterns of tattooing, that infallible
means of identification amongst the Maoris, render it possible to
preserve the memories of the individual ancestors through pictorial
representation.[245]

Not less problematic than ancestral sculptures are the much-debated
rock-paintings and engravings that can be found in every part of
the world. Herr Andree finds a sort of learned bias in the general
tendency to look for some serious, sacred, or historical meaning
in every petroglyph. He points, very sensibly as it seems, to the
prevailing impulse of the idle hand to scratch some figures, however
meaningless, on every inviting and empty surface. Especially at much
frequented localities—such as meeting-places, common thoroughfares,
and places of rest for travellers—where the drawings of previous
visitors call for imitation, this temptation must be looked upon as a
very strong one.[246] There is no reason for regarding the savage and
the prehistoric man as devoid of an impulse, which, as we all know,
shows its strength among the very lowest and most primitive layers
of civilised society. It is unnecessary, therefore, to find anything
more remarkable in the petroglyphs than is to be found in the familiar
pictures on walls, trees, and rocks which have been wantonly decorated
by the modern vandal. This common-sense explanation is undoubtedly
sufficient to account for the origin of many much-debated works of
glyphic art. But however sound within its proper limits it cannot be
extended so as to give a general solution of the petroglyph problem.
It is not likely, as Mr. Im Thurn observes, that pictures such as the
rock-engravings in Guiana, to produce which must have cost so much time
and trouble, should have their origin in mere caprice and idleness.[247]

But even if the serious aspect of the petroglyphs is granted there
still remains the difficulty of determining their special purpose. The
historical explanation, although it would appear the most natural for
us to adopt, is not to be taken unreservedly with regard to tribes on
a low degree of development. What to us seems a sort of picture-writing
might possibly serve a purpose anything but communicative. The
so-called ideograms of the Nicobarese have, for example, according
to Herr Svoboda, for their object the distraction of the attention
of the malevolent demons from their houses and implements[248]. When
investigating the ritual, especially the funeral ceremonies, one meets
with various specimens of similar ideography, the thought-conveying
purpose of which is deceptive.

By the above examples the ambiguous character of primitive art-works
has been proved almost _ad nauseam_. It appears that every single
conclusion based upon isolated ethnological examples only is liable
to be upset after a closer study of the facts. In order, therefore,
to make any positive assertions as to the commemorative element in
art we need some safer and more reliable grounds of argument than
the inconsistent stories of travellers. We have, in other words,
to investigate the social and psychological conditions which, in
the respective cases, speak for or against the assumption of a
commemorative impulse as a motive for art-production. Owing to our
deficient knowledge of primitive life we are not able to rely upon
these social and psychological data in every individual case. But
we may nevertheless arrive at some broad results which in the main
tally with, and corroborate the evidence afforded by, the majority of
ethnological facts.

It is easy to understand why historical art holds no high place among
the lower—that is, the hunting and fishing—tribes. Even if, as is the
case in Australia, every unusual occurrence is represented in art with
a view of keeping up its memory,[249] these accidental interruptions
in a monotonous life cannot possibly contribute to the development
of an historical interest—that is to say, a commemorative attention
in the people. When, on the other hand, we meet, in barbaric and
semi-barbaric tribes, with a flourishing traditional art, we can also,
in most cases, point to some peculiar features in their life which
have called for commemoration. In a general survey of traditional
poetry one cannot but be struck by the great prevalence of legends
about migrations.[250] As travels and incidents of travel were found
to provide a favourite subject for the pantomimes and poems described
in the preceding chapter, so these experiences have also exercised
an important influence on the songs that have been preserved by oral
tradition. And as we meet with numerous instances of improvised drama
and poetry called forth by so eminently interesting an occurrence as
the visit of some white people, so we can also trace the same theme in
manifestations of historical art from dim and distorted narrations up
to richly detailed descriptions like those of the Hawajian songs or of
the Mangaian “Drama of Cook.”[251] The influence which these motives
have exercised on the history of art is only in accordance with the
universal laws of psychology. Tribal memory, no less than individual
memory, is dependent for its development on some favourable external
influences that stimulate the attention.

It must not surprise us, therefore, that the varying experiences of
war have everywhere acted as a strong incentive on the commemorative
impulse. In this case, however, we have to count with a factor of still
greater importance in the directly utilitarian advantage which military
nations derive from historical art. Through recounting or representing
the exploits of earlier generations, the descendants acquire that
healthy feeling of pride which is the most important factor of success
in all brutal forms of the struggle for life. So it has come about that
historic art has everywhere reached its highest state of development
amongst nations who have had to hold their own _vi et armis_ against
neighbouring tribes, or in the midst of which antagonistic families
have fought for supremacy. The more the social institutions have been
influenced by the customs of war, the more important is usually the
part which commemoration plays in public life. It is highly prominent
in semi-feudal Polynesia,[252] where domestic warfare was at all times
of regular occurrence; it has developed to some extent in warlike
Fiji,[253] notwithstanding the Melanesian indifference for the past;
and it has obtained the position of a state function in military
despotisms, such as the barbaric kingdoms of Central and South America
and Western Africa.[254] In isolated tribes, on the other hand, whose
whole struggle has been one against nature, historical art is generally
to be found at a very low ebb.

That bygone events have been preserved in history and art chiefly for
the sake of their effect in enhancing the national pride can also be
concluded from the way in which humiliating incidents are treated.
There are, it is true, a few isolated and unhappy tribes which keep up
some dim traditions of their inglorious past.[255] Generally, however,
defeats are totally ignored in the earliest chronicles. If, however, an
unsuccessful battle should have provoked artistic manifestations, these
aim at masking the humiliation.[256] The ancient history of Greece
affords the most curious examples of myths and inventions by means
of which the popular imagination contrived to conceal disagreeable
truths. The fate of Phrynichos, who was fined for having revived the
memory of the defeat at Miletus, shows that Greece, even at a much
later period, preserved the same primitive ideas as to the _raison
d’être_ of historic art. It is needless to point out to how great an
extent similar conceptions still prevail amongst all warlike nations,
civilised and barbarous alike.

We must not overlook the fact, however, that defeats are often
represented in unmasked form for the purpose of stirring up a
revengeful spirit. But this apparent exception only proves the
rule. By appealing to the wounded dignity of the people, poems
and dramas of this kind serve the cravings of collective pride as
effectively—although, no doubt, indirectly—as manifestations of
the opposite order. An increased attention to the past, with a
corresponding richness of traditional art, can also generally be found
in nations where revenge is considered as a sacred duty bequeathed to
descendants by their ancestors.

When historic art is regarded as a means of handing down to posterity a
knowledge of the present, a connection with the same group of emotions
is easily discoverable. The great works of commemoration are all
monuments of boasting. By the grandiloquent hieroglyphs on palaces and
pyramids and by the extolling hymns that he orders to be sung in his
praise, the exultant hero endeavours to win from future admirers a meed
of praise which shall quench his unsatisfied thirst for glorification.
Even in this case, therefore, history, in its psychological sense—that
is, the concentration of attention upon times other than the
present—has been born of pride.

By relying on this emotionalistic interpretation we can explain the
otherwise extraordinary development of commemorative art amongst
tribes on relatively low stages of intellectual development. The same
explanation also accounts for the artistic value of the primitive
records. The intensely emotional element of exultation, pride, and
boasting that pervades so many of the commemorative poems and dramas
makes this kind of history an art in the proper sense of the word.

It is needless to point out expressly that literary and formative arts
may be used for conveying thought-contents which cannot, properly
speaking, be called historical. We have restricted our attention to
the unmistakably commemorative forms, because in these alone can the
purpose of information be isolated with any degree of certainty. By
tracing the gradual development of narrative art from those simplest
manifestations in which the work is immediately connected with the
real occurrence that called it into existence, up to the more complex
forms of transmitted art, in which distant events are represented, we
have endeavoured to keep our argument within the limits of positive
research. This safe ground we should be compelled to abandon if we were
to engage in the otherwise so fascinating task of unearthing historical
elements in mythological tradition.

It seems impossible, moreover, to treat of such art-forms as the
nature-myths, the tales, and the animal stories without bringing in
those factors which should especially be kept outside the present
research—the art-impulse, the play-impulse, or the delight in pure
invention for invention’s sake; whereas we are justified in treating
even the highest purely commemorative art as the development of an
activity which was connected with the utilitarian end of information.

It must not be overlooked, however, that primitive art offers some
important and purely didactic manifestations which have no historical
purpose. Thus, among savages and barbarians, dramatic performances,
poetic recitals, and pictorial representations often serve as means of
expounding religious or philosophical doctrines. We need only refer
to the most striking instances, such as the Australian miracle-plays,
in which the old men enact before the boys a representation of death
and resurrection.[257] Although less elaborate in dramatic detail and
stage-management, the fragmentary dramas in which the Indian shaman
novitiates are supposed to be killed and recalled to life present to
us a scarcely less interesting result of the same great thought.[258]
There are indeed, especially in this later example, good reasons for
assuming that the simulated death and resurrection are supposed to
effect, in a magical way, some kind of spiritual regeneration in the
novitiates on whose behalf the drama is performed. But while admitting
this, we may nevertheless take it for granted that an endeavour to
elucidate the doctrines of the shaman priesthood may be combined with
the magical rite in question. And similarly, with regard to analogous
ceremonies in other tribes, we feel justified in assuming the presence
of a didactic purpose. The more the doctrinal system becomes fixed
and elaborated, the greater need will there ensue of affording these
doctrines a clear expression in the objective forms of art.

What has been said about religious and philosophical subjects in
dramatical art refers equally to poems and paintings. We have therefore
to regard the requirements of religious instruction as a factor which
has favoured the development of art in all its departments. But we
have no means of ascertaining at what precise stage in the evolution
this factor, as distinct from other motives, began to exercise
its influence. The settlement of this special point, however, is
not indispensable to a general comprehension of the principles of
art-history.

It is more important, from our point of view, to determine the
influence which the purely intellectual motive of conveying with
the greatest possible clearness a thought-content, be it historical,
religious, or philosophical, has exercised on the artistic
representations of life and nature. Although of itself essentially
non-æsthetic, this purpose has nevertheless called into existence some
most important æsthetic qualities. Especially in narrative painting
we may often observe how the virtues of exactness, explicitness, and
comprehensibility give a character of beauty to representations which
may have originated in a purely practical intention. As has been
clearly pointed out by Mr. Walter Crane, the Egyptian hieroglyphs have
reached their “wonderful pitch of abstract yet exact characterisation”
precisely because they had the character and the purpose of a
“decorative record.” The same necessity, viz. that “every object
had to be clearly defined so as to be recognised at once and easily
deciphered,”[259] is undoubtedly to a great degree responsible for the
element of beauty which is to be found in the pictography of North
American Indians. Practical utility has in this way subserved the
development of an attention to the picturesque side of things. But
one has only to look at the more symbolical systems of ideographic
writing, such as the Assyrian, the Mexican, and the Chinese, in order
to understand that the intellectual requirement by itself never would
have created an _artistic_ representation of nature.[260]

This distinction is especially indispensable for a right conception
of the intellectual elements in poetry. It is undeniable that some of
the most important qualities in literature were developed during the
time when it was used chiefly as a means for conveying information.
The practical considerations therein have undoubtedly influenced
the form of the oral narrative. It is evident, for example, that the
metrical and rhythmical recital must have proved the more serviceable
whenever a thought-content was to be preserved for futurity. But this
fact gives no authorisation to those curious theories according to
which poetry was invented and developed, thanks to its merits as a
mnemonic device. It is, as was long since remarked by Brown,[261]
difficult to understand how rhythm, numbers, and verse could have been
devised as assistance for the memory, supposing nothing of that kind
to have been existing before. And even if we admit that they could
have been invented by accident, it is plain, when we fix our mind on
the _essential_ qualities of poetry, that the use of rhythm and metre
to aid memory could only have supplied a _mechanical_ condition to
facilitate the development of poetic art.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                            ANIMAL DISPLAY


In a treatment of the relation between art and sexual life the facts
must necessarily be classified under two different headings, namely,
the influence of artistic activity upon sexual selection and the
importance of erotic motives in works of art. These two points of view
have indeed often been confounded with each other. But it will soon
appear from the following how indispensable it is to maintain the
distinction between them.

In modern literature there has scarcely appeared any treatise of the
same importance, not only for the theory of art, but also for æsthetic
proper, as the chapters on sexual selection in _The Descent of Man_. As
is well known, Darwin supposes a necessary connection between beauty
and art. He takes it for granted that music, poetry, drama, and the
rest chiefly aim at pleasing. When he sees that activities and forms,
which at least technically correspond to the various kinds of art,
are to be met with not only among the lower tribes of man, but even
among some of the higher animals, he therefore explains these forms
and activities as emanating from a conscious or unconscious endeavour
to please through beauty. And for this endeavour he finds a reason in
the necessity of gaining preference in the favour of the female. By
endowing the female with æsthetic attention and æsthetic judgment[262]
he has been able not only to explain the appearance of art amongst
savages and animals, but also to account for the importance of beauty
in life.

In the foregoing arguments we have already with sufficient clearness
pronounced our dissent from Darwin’s primary supposition. In the
chapter upon the art-impulse we have tried to show that this tendency
in its essence is something quite different from the tendency to
“attract by pleasing.” But with all this theoretical argumentation
it has of course not been proved that the endeavour of the males
to win the favour of the females by singing, dancing, and other
similar performances has exercised no influence on the _history_ of
art. However little these activities may have to do with real art,
they might, however, have afforded a raw material to be used by the
art-impulse proper for its own purposes. In this connection it is
necessary, therefore, to discuss the question, To what extent has
æsthetic choice, exercised by either of the sexes in selecting a mate,
favoured the development of artistic activities in the other sex?

The æsthetic theory of Darwin has its chief interest in the fact that
it can be applied to the activities of animals as well as to those of
men. Darwin himself has chosen the majority of his examples from bird
life, and his critics have generally restricted the discussion to the
zoological application of his thesis. As the data of animal psychology
are less complicated than the corresponding facts in the mental life of
man, it is in every respect advantageous to begin with this supposed
animal art. When the illustrations are chosen from bird life the
argumentation can, moreover, be handled with a freedom which would be
impossible in discussing the delicate questions of human erotics and
sexual life.

The theory of an appeal to some primordial æsthetic appreciation
in the hen birds is one which, however well it may account for the
beautiful plumage of some species and for the melodious singing of
some others, necessarily must arouse objections from the point of view
of comparative psychology. Æsthetic judgment presupposes a certain
development not only of intellectual qualities, but also of moral
self-restraint. In other words, it might be said that attention to
beauty, whether manifested in forms or colours or sounds, always
is what Ribot calls an “attention volontaire.”[263] It is hard to
believe that the hen really has reached such a state of spiritual
freedom that, when looking at the finery and the antics of her rival
suitors, she could be able to bestow her attention upon the æsthetic
qualities in the display. One has only to work out into all its details
and consequences the idea of a bird who approves or disapproves the
performance, and who, after balancing the merits of the various
competitors, awards her prize to the one nearest her ideal of beauty,
in order to realise the improbability, not to say the absurdity, of
this avian connoisseurship. M. Espinas, who describes in detail the
dilemma of the anxiously hesitating arbiter, has added nothing to
the theory of æsthetic selection. But it may safely be said that his
illustration of the thesis acts as a caricature of it.[264]

The improbability of an æsthetic judgment is yet more palpable when
one considers the state of mind in which the hen is likely to be on the
occasion. It has indeed been contended with regard to some species—as,
for instance, the satyr bird—that the hen behaves with a perfect calm
and indifference during the display of the cock.[265] But it would be
undoubtedly too rash to form any general conclusion on the ground of
her outward show in some single instances. Amongst the wood-birds, on
the other hand, the hens are known to be so excited during the “Balz”
that they can easily be caught with the hands.[266]

To all these _a priori_ objections there may also be added the remark
of Geddes and Thomson, that if the females of insects and birds had
really called into existence all the detailed patterns on the dresses
of their respective males by the exercise of æsthetic selection, they
would possess more discrimination than is shown in their predilection
for any sort of gaudy-coloured objects, such as pebbles, slips of
paper, and rags.[267]

However great the psychological improbability of the supposed
æsthetic selection, there is still more reason to take exception to
it from an evolutionistic point of view. The female appreciation
for gaudy and gorgeous dresses must necessarily, as Darwin himself
remarks, in many cases give rise to a plumage, as a result of which
the males become encumbered in their movements and easily discovered
by their enemies.[268] Æsthetic judgment, which is in itself so
incomprehensible, would thus have been developed in a continuous
conflict with natural selection. This circumstance, more than anything
else, makes it indispensable to look for some more utilitarian cause of
the secondary sexual characters and activities than the hypothetical
necessity of satisfying a sense of beauty in the female sex.

By the theory that has been advanced by Wallace, and further
developed by Westermarck, the nuptial dresses of the males have
indeed been accounted for in a simple way.[269] Reference to the need
of recognisable marks for every different species can explain the
most prominent characteristics in male plumage without any appeal
to an æsthetic sense. This need, together with the equally great
indispensability of protective colouring, must necessarily give rise
to precisely such brilliant coloured spots on a monotonous or plain
surface as are so often found on the bodies of the northern birds. The
gaudier coloration of the tropical species, on the other hand, appears
as a result of their more brilliant surroundings. Even here protective
colouring often leaves to the colour of recognition only a narrow and
limited space, on which this has to develop itself with so much the
greater intensity. In this way one can find a reason not only for the
decorations, which are beautiful according to our standard, but also
for the inharmonious and glaring colour-combinations.

An adherent of sexual selection can, however, easily object that these
theories, however sound and sensible they may be, still leave the main
point in Darwin’s thesis quite unaffected. When trying to prove the
existence of an æsthetic judgment in birds, he did not lay so much
stress upon decorative plumage itself as upon the fact of its being
displayed in the presence of the hen. If secondary sexual characters
had their only purpose in facilitating recognition between individuals
of the same species, then these elaborate performances would be quite
superfluous. And this argument can of course be further strengthened by
reference to the musical and dancing entertainments given by the males.
Any theory which leaves these activities unexplained must therefore be
regarded as incomplete.

In Mr. Wallace’s _Darwinism_ due attention has indeed been paid
to pre-nuptial performances. But his explanation, viz. that the
dancing and singing, etc., are only the effect of an inner impulse to
movement and activity which accompanies sexual maturity,[270] can but
incompletely unriddle the problem. For the purpose of affording an
outflow to a surplus of vigour or of discharging a nervous tension,
activities of a far simpler character would have been sufficient. As,
however, amongst birds with gorgeous plumage every movement in the
display tends towards exhibiting their splendour with the greatest
possible _éclat_, an influence upon the hen cannot be argued away. It
is, as Darwin remarks, impossible to believe that the Argus pheasant,
for instance, should have developed precisely such a curious and
peculiar sort of dance, through which his beautiful dress is so
effectively shown forth, if this dance had been of no effect upon
its spectators.[271] This effect cannot, as has been shown above, be
considered an æsthetic one. It is also difficult to believe that the
hen, as it has been suggested, should appreciate the secondary sexual
characters as signs of greater or smaller vital force, and thus prefer
not the most beautiful, but the most vigorous and ardent mate.[272]
Whether it is founded on an æsthetic judgment or on an estimation
of the force displayed, her conscious choosing seems to be alike
improbable.

But if it is difficult to believe that the display of the males could
call forth an intellectual activity in the hen, such as that of
comparing and valuing the merits of the rival suitors,[273] one can
safely assume that it might influence her emotional and instinctive
life. And for the production of such an effect there is no need to
suppose any intervening æsthetic activity. Considering the close
parallelism which shows itself in the development of either sex, it
would only be natural if a colour and voice alteration in the cock,
which undeniably is dependent upon sexual ripening,[274] should
directly and almost physiologically imply a reaction in the sexual life
of the hen. The more energetically the male forces himself upon the
attention of the female by the conspicuous visual and acoustic signs of
his sex, the more powerful must necessarily be the emotional response
in her.

If secondary sexual characters are interpreted in this way, as signs,
by which the sex of the male is manifested in an unmistakable manner,
then one can easily understand the influence of a prolonged display.
When the cock is exhibiting his plumes or pouring forth his notes, and
thereby impressing upon his female listener the notion of his malehood,
he cannot but produce in her an enhanced inclination for pairing.[275]
She needs no æsthetic appreciation or intellectual judgment in order
to comprehend the simple text of all his utterances. With all her
instincts and impulses she can at once grasp the only thing she wants
to know—the thing that is brought home to her with a greater and
greater clearness during the continuation of his performance, namely,
that the passionate actor in front of her is a mature representative
of the other sex. And besides this, the secondary sexual characters
and activities tell another tale of no less importance. If the colours
and the tones of the cock, as Westermarck has shown, are of great
consequence for facilitating from a distance recognition between
members of the same species,[276] their biological significance is
perhaps yet greater when they, during the display before the hen,
accentuate the community of species. By virtue of her inherited
constitution, the instinctive life of the hen will be deeper stirred
the more the male is able to show that he “wears the feathers of her
tribe.”

It is evident that the effect upon the hen must be greater in
proportion as the sex marks and species marks of the male are more
clearly defined, and therefore easier to perceive. Not only as means
of recognition, but also as instruments for sexual incitement,
colour-patterns with lucent points must be more advantageous than any
other system of decoration. It is easily understood that a design like
that on the tails of pheasants and peacocks is eminently capable of
attracting the female attention to the displaying cock. But it would
be stretching the theory too far if the marvellous “balls on sockets”
were explained as nothing but conspicuous signals, the meaning of
which the hen is able to decipher by help of her inherited instincts.
The influence of the display is amongst these species undoubtedly
strengthened by an action which is quite independent of any sexual
associations. Besides accentuating the sex and kind of the cock, these
luminous spheres will, moreover, in virtue of their very smallness
and brilliancy, provoke a stimulation in the mind of the hen before
whom they are vibrated. To understand this effect, it is necessary
to investigate the more general question of animal appreciation of
brilliancy.

The powerful attraction exercised by lucent things can be sufficiently
proved by numerous instances from the life of insects and fishes as
well as of higher animals. It is needless to dwell upon the various
means by which man has availed himself of this disastrous predilection
in order to entice animals within reach of his weapons.[277] More
important in this connection is the mania for collecting lustrous
objects that has been noticed in the case of ravens, jays, magpies,
jackdaws, goldfinches, chiff-chaffs, sea-pies, etc.[278] It has
scarcely ever been suggested that the thievish jackdaw is prompted
by any _æsthetic_ liking for brilliant plate. But as it shows itself
amongst the atlas birds and the bower birds, this exaggeration of the
appropriative impulse has been regarded as an indication of artistic
inclination. It has been contended that these birds not only appreciate
shining and gorgeous objects, but even understand how to arrange them
according to a decorative plan.[279]

No one will deny that structures, such as, for instance, the gardens
of the atlas birds, which have been depicted by Beccari, are most
wonderful specimens of animal industry.[280] But it is undoubtedly
misleading to speak of them as artistic. As far as can be judged from
the descriptions—which are seldom complete—the arrangement of the
objects seems to be quite accidental. Darwin has indeed collected some
most eulogistic accounts of the decorative taste of the Australian
bower bird. But he has also, candidly enough, illustrated them with a
picture, on which an irregular heap of shells and bones is to be seen
in front of the bower. And the description he borrows from Mr. Strange
is yet more significant. To judge from this account, which is further
corroborated by the statement of Captain Stokes, the chief interest
of the birds seems to be not the arranging of their treasures, but
the playing with them. It has been noticed that the cock of the great
bower bird amuses himself by flying to and fro in the bower carrying
a shell in his bill, which he picks up on one side and carries to the
other.[281] On an anthropomorphic interpretation such a behaviour would
perhaps indicate a desire of trying some new decorative effect. But it
seems more natural to assume that brilliant objects, even after they
have been stored up in the nest, still exercise their irresistible
attraction, and thereby tempt the birds to repeated trifling with them.
If the supposed redecorations of the gardens be accounted for in this
manner, then there is no reason for considering the collecting impulse
in the Australian birds as anything more than a higher development of
the same tendency which shows itself in our common magpies and jackdaws.

By the Australian instances, however, the general predilection for
brilliant objects is brought into connection with the pairing dresses
of pheasants, peacocks, and humming birds. The small and brilliant
objects with which the bower birds play during their pairing season
remind us irresistibly of the “balls on sockets” and of the ocelli
designs of the colibri.[282] It is true that the pheasants carry on
their tail what the Australian birds keep in their bill. But apart
from this unimportant difference, the display seems to be the same in
both cases. In Mr. Strange’s letter it is said that the cock, when
performing the exalted antics that precede pairing, “runs to the bower,
picks up a gaudy feather or a spotted leaf, pours forth some peculiar
notes, and runs through the pavilion.” It is not quite clear from this
wording whether the objects really are exhibited _before_ the hen. But
one may safely assume that she in any case has paid some attention to
her consort’s performance. She has decidedly not, any more than the
pea-hen, received any sort of æsthetic impression from the display. But
the brilliancy has undoubtedly stimulated her, as it stimulates all
the other birds quoted in this connection, in a purely physiological
way. This action, on the other hand, is sufficiently explained by
recent researches on the physiological effects which the contemplation
of concentrated lustre produces on animal organisms. It is also well
known that objects with exactly the same qualities as the ocelli on the
peacock’s tail play an important part in hypnotic experiments. And the
primitive shamans as well as the modern cultivators of “crystal-gazing”
are acquainted with the peculiar effects of prolonged gazing on
glass-balls or the shining surface of water. More familiar still is
the fascinating influence exercised by that lustrous little globe, the
human eye.

In all these various examples the smallness of the object fetters the
attention, and thereby makes the mind a defenceless prey to the images,
feelings, and impulses which for the moment invade it. The lustre, on
the other hand, will, to use the language of M. Binet, strengthen the
intensity of these mental images.[283] There is no reason why these
effects, which presuppose no sort of intellectual activity, should not
take place in animals as well as in man. In the case of the peacock,
therefore, the idea “male” will imprint itself with greater and more
efficacy upon the mind of the hen when she is exposed on every side to
the twinkling eyes on the expanded tail of her mate.

Even in the very cases that have been regarded as the most
incontestable proofs of a taste for the beautiful, the influence on
the hen can thus be explained as one which directly, _i.e._ without
any æsthetic mediation, has served the interests of pairing. But it
may still be asked, Whence the need of strengthening and intensifying
the emotions in the female, which must already have been awakened by
the mere presence of the male? This objection, however, is easily met
by a reference to the psychological aspects of pairing. Throughout
the animal kingdom the males have to conquer a resistance from the
side of the females. This instinctive coyness, the importance of which
for the maintenance of the species is incalculable and self-evident,
constitutes by itself a sufficient cause for the supposed æsthetic
characters and activities of the males.[284] It has made it necessary
for them to have a stately carriage, which makes them bigger and more
pompous than ever, and to display their bodies in flying tricks, or
dances and antics,—in a word, to emphasise their sex as energetically
as possible by colours and tunes and movements. And this necessity has,
by means of a _natural_ selection, called forth a colouring which is
not only easily recognisable from a distance, but which also forces
itself on the senses when seen at close quarters.

The æsthetic judgment of the hen forms the pivot of the whole Darwinian
theory. When it has been eliminated, it is therefore quite superfluous
to controvert the assertion, which Darwin himself would not positively
defend, that the performances of the males have originated in an
artistic endeavour.[285] Once granted an instinctive coyness in the
hen, which must be overcome by every possible means, one can easily
understand that secondary sexual characters and activities would
gradually appear in the males. The expressive movements in which
they seek to relieve their nervous tension afford a material out of
which natural selection will shape, as the most effective means of
incitation, the various forms of display, or dance, or song. As is
well known, Wallace,[286] Spencer,[287] and Hudson[288] have even
contended that emotional pressure, or, as they put it, overflowing
vitality, by itself constitutes a sufficient explanation of the “Balz.”
In the above treatment of the question, which in its main points
accords with the conclusive researches of Professor Groos, we have
endeavoured to show that the various sorts of display never could
have reached their special and differentiated forms if it had not been
for the necessity of overcoming female coyness. But, on the other
hand, this necessity could never have created out of nothing all these
complicated activities. It is difficult—perhaps even impossible—to
make any general assertions about the relative importance of these two
explanations.[289] The only point which it is necessary to bring out
in this connection is that a sort of nuptial performance would have
appeared amongst the males even independently of its influence upon
the hen. The hygienic need of an outburst is one reason, and a very
strong one indeed, for such motor manifestations. But it seems also as
if their purpose ought not to be restricted to this cathartic effect.
The “lek” of the wood-birds tends no doubt to _increase_ nervous force
at the same time as it relieves the tension. M. Espinas thinks that the
males, when collecting in great numbers during the pairing season, are
led by an unconscious desire to stimulate their feelings by the view of
other equally excited fellow-males.[290] Such an unconscious desire of
enhancing nervous force probably lies also behind the inclination for
brilliant objects and the trifling with them in the bowers.[291] That
a sort of artificial stimulation really is necessary may perhaps be
concluded from Brehm’s general remark about the sexual life of birds:
“The pairing is often repeated, and still more often ineffectually
attempted.”[292] In a private communication to Groos, Professor
Ziegler, the eminent zoologist, also refers to the increased nervous
activity which is necessary for pairing, and the passionate preludes
which precede it in so many animals.[293]

By these two principles, viz. the necessity of overcoming the
instinctive coyness of the hen and that of stimulating the nervous
system of the cock, it is, we believe, possible to account for all the
secondary sexual characters and activities which in Darwin’s theory
necessitated the hypothesis of an animal æsthetic. When the directly
physiological importance of the nuptial preludes is acknowledged one
can also, without appealing to the effects of association, explain
the occurrence of a “lek” in birds who have already made their choice
of mate.[294] And, on the other hand, we need not give up any one
of the general results at which Darwin arrived in his researches.
Although conscious selection on the part of the hen must be denied,
the fact that she consents to couple only with the cock who has been
able to stir her feelings better than any other, constitutes a kind of
unconscious choice. It may seem unnecessary, therefore, to lay so much
stress upon the theoretical inappropriateness of Darwin’s language. The
æsthetical terms in _The Descent of Man_ could easily be exchanged for
more physiological ones without any important alteration in the main
thesis of the book. And it must even be conceded that, owing to the
extreme cautiousness which was such a remarkable peculiarity of Darwin,
this substitution would not be required in more than a few passages. He
himself often speaks of ornamental plumage as a means of “exciting,” or
“charming,” or “fascinating” the females;[295] once he even restricts
himself to saying that the hens “prefer, or are unconsciously excited
by, the more beautiful males.”[296] From the biological point of view
it would therefore be pretentious to claim any importance for this
reformulation of the Darwinian theory. But, from what must be the
dominating point of view in this work, it is by no means unnecessary
to disentangle the confusion between æsthetic appreciation and
physiological stimulation. The æsthetic corollaries, which are the
most important in this connection, will be greatly modified as soon
as the more physiological interpretation is applied to the various
manifestations of animal art.

When Darwin chose to endow the hen with an aboriginal æsthetic judgment
he was at once confronted by a difficulty which was perhaps even
greater than that of locating the beginnings of art in the animal
kingdom. The facts compelled him to admit that in some species this
æsthetic judgment seemed to be a very bad one indeed.[297] When
secondary sexual characters are regarded as signs by which the kind
and sex of the males are accentuated, this apparent inconsistency is
easily understood. The harsh cry and the inharmonious colouring of
the macaw[298] tell their tale as eloquently and convincingly as any
of the æsthetic characters of the other birds. The roaring of the
battle bump,[299] the disagreeable miauling of the peacock, and the
bleating call-note of the greenfinch[300] no doubt cause as great a
pleasure in their respective hens as is ever caused by the song of
the nightingale in his mate. That the secondary sexual characters
of the birds on the whole are so much more beautiful than those of
the mammals is not the result of any originally higher standard of
beauty with their respective females. The superiority of the birds
is quite sufficiently accounted for by the peculiar conditions of
their life, which necessitate and call forth graceful shape as well
as graceful movements. Their gorgeous colouring, on the other hand,
is undoubtedly—as has been shown above—to some extent at least
conditioned by the gaudy colouring of the tropical landscape. It must
be remarked, moreover, that notwithstanding their undeniable splendour,
the dresses of the birds by no means generally fulfil the claims of
tasteful composition. When appreciating the plumage and the songs of
the birds, we usually look upon them as pieces of nature. We admire
them as we admire the woods and flowers and every other manifestation
of nature and life. This attitude must necessarily be given up as soon
as a conscious tendency is assumed in “animal art.” When we regard the
secondary sexual characters in the manner of Darwin—as results of an
æsthetic choice—we cannot help missing all the æsthetic qualities of
harmony and composition, which are never expected, and therefore never
missed, in the objects of nature. If the proper distinction between art
and nature is maintained, it will be possible to combine an unabated
admiration for the marvels of beauty in bird life with a denial of
“animal art.”




                              CHAPTER XV

                       ART AND SEXUAL SELECTION


The explanation which we have given in the preceding chapter of the
pairing dresses of the birds can of course be equally well applied to
the secondary sexual characters of man. And it holds good also, we
believe, with regard to the most primitive _voluntary_ alterations
in the appearance of either sex. It is true, indeed, that artificial
embellishments or deformations, the work of the individual himself,
never can appeal so strongly to the instincts of the other sex as
those alterations which are physiologically connected with sexual
development. But when, as is the case with most primitive tribes,
the so-called means of attraction have remained almost unchanged
during innumerable successive generations, one may safely conclude
that the instincts of either sex will gradually grow prompt to react
with eminent force upon impressions received from such individuals
as exhibit these conventional signs of their sex and tribe. Whether
the acquired qualities are considered as hereditary, or whether the
consistency in the predilections of all the members of the same tribe
be explained—in the Weissmannian or the neo-Darwinian way—as a result
of selection, there will always be found in either sex a sort of
constitutional liking for certain fixed qualities in the appearance of
the opposite sex. An appearance and a behaviour which, in the ancestors
of an individual, male or female, have stirred the instinctive life of
the opposite sex through generations past by, must needs improve his
or her chances in courtship. The more a suitor approaches the ideal
which unconsciously, and one may say physiologically, is embodied in
the inherited impulses of every female, the more helplessly is she
exposed to the fascination of his charms. And when, at a certain higher
state of development, the males begin to practise a selection between
rival females, they will undoubtedly be influenced in their choice by
the same sort of inherited predilections. And there is no reason why
these predilections should be restricted to anatomical qualities—why
artificial adornments, perhaps even detached gems, which have only
been traditional during some generations, should not influence sexual
preferences in the same direct way—that is, without any intervention of
an æsthetic judgment, as secondary sexual characters proper influence
them. This circumstance justifies us in treating the outward physical
appearance and the conventional means of embellishing it in conjunction
with each other. An outward sign, whether natural or artificial, which
has often enough been connected with the impression of the other sex
will necessarily tend to awaken sexual feelings.

For such an effect it is of course not indispensable that these signs
should have originated in an endeavour to charm the sex. As in the
foregoing chapter, we have to keep the question of influence upon the
other sex apart from the question of the positive causes—that is,
conscious or unconscious motives, which have called forth the various
secondary sexual characters and activities. For convenience of
exposition it is advantageous to begin with the first-mentioned phase
of the problem.

Without as yet pronouncing any definite views as to the aims the
pursuit of which has led to the different systems of adornment, we
may safely maintain that any conspicuous garments, independently of
their ornamental qualities, which have served to distinguish the adult
and marriageable individuals from other members of the tribe, have
been of importance as means of attraction. According to the ingenious
explanation of Dr. Westermarck, even clothing was originally invented
not to conceal nudity, but to set it off.[301] There is room, as will
be shown later on, for objecting to any definite statement with regard
to a question such as this, the answer to which is to be sought for
in several directions at once. But there can be no doubt about the
fact that the simplest dresses, and especially those which have been
interpreted as indicating a sense of modesty, practically accentuate
the things they technically conceal. At a stage of development where
nudity is the normal state, veiling must necessarily suggest the same
emotions as unveiling in a civilised society. As Dr. Westermarck
has been able to show, dresses are adopted by a majority of tribes
on the attainment of puberty and on the occasions of great feasts;
it is therefore natural that they should act as powerful sexual
incitements.[302] And this view receives additional support from the
arguments of its opponents. The large collection of facts that Dr.
Schurtz has quoted in proof of his assertion that clothing originally
aimed at “the concealment of sexual differences” may of course be
interpreted with equal and, we believe, with greater probability in
the inverse sense.[303] One has only to look, for example, at some of
the richly-embroidered cinctures of the Guiana natives in order to
understand that these coverings, whatever may have been their original
purpose, can never have acted as an effective means of diverting the
attention.

The differences between the sexes will, however, be emphasised not
only by the special garments for which Dr. Schurtz proposes the
above-mentioned explanation, but also by every article of dress or
ornament. For the intellectualistically prejudiced observer it is
undoubtedly most natural to consider the various kinds of fixed or
detached ornament, such as paintings and tattooings, ribbons, laces,
collars, and so on, as means of influencing an æsthetic sense in the
spectator. But it is evidently more in accordance with the principles
of comparative psychology to assume that all these garnitures
originally had their main significance not as beautifying things or
as things of beauty themselves, but as marks by which the personality
of the decorated man or woman was distinguished. To illustrate this
argument it is not necessary to go back to the primitive stages. Even
among civilised men, gems and jewels, when seen on a member of the
opposite sex, have chiefly a symbolic value. In the string of pearls
which encircles a woman’s neck, or in the gay feather of a man’s hat,
the charm and fascination of a whole human being are concentrated to
a single focus. To the lover’s attention everything that has some
connection with the beloved shines with a borrowed light. We all know
that handkerchiefs and shoes can be adored with an almost fetichistic
devotion. All the more must a gem which is conspicuously carried on
the body be able to imbibe and exhale the charms of its wearer. The
lyrical poetry of all ages is there to prove the emotional value which
can thus be attached to lifeless things. And the psychology of the
emotions in its turn gives a simple explanation of the fact that loving
imagination always dwells with predilection upon some single part of
the attire of the beloved. A small and conspicuous object which can
easily be embraced by the senses affords a vehicle which can carry into
the mind the whole complex of feelings and impulses that are attached
to the notion of the beloved. Well knowing this law of emotional
mechanics, an intelligent woman who is anxious to please does not cover
herself with jewels and ornaments. She prefers some single brilliant
gem, which does not so much call for admiration itself, as draw
attention to her charms and heighten the impression which they produce.

It may seem very far-fetched to explain the primitive means of
attraction by reference to the art of pleasing among modern men. But
however much the forms of courtship may have been changed by higher
development, their psychological basis is still the same at all stages
of culture. There is no need, as far as purely erotic purposes are
concerned, to embellish the appearance; what is wanted is only to
enable the appearance itself to produce its most effectual impression.
When this point is kept in mind, it is easily understood that ornaments
such as a simple piece of glass in the hair or a band of shells twisted
around the neck can be as charming in the eyes of primitive man as any
of the gems that are used among civilised nations. And there is no
reason to doubt that the savage beaux and belles really have increased
their chances by putting wooden slabs in their lips and ears, or pins
of bone through their nose.

In the last-mentioned cases the effect has, moreover, been strengthened
by the appearance of strangeness that is given to the face by deforming
adornments. Eyes that might pass by with indifference an accustomed
impression, are unavoidably arrested by any extraordinary character.
As amongst the birds and mammals, horns, accrescences, and gorgeous
plumage, independently of their possible æsthetic qualities, assist
the males in courting the females, so also amongst men any means of
correcting the normal appearance, be it through flattening the head,
filling, extracting, or blackening the teeth, elongating the ears or
compressing the waist, will, in virtue only of its singularity, act
as an effectual instrument of charming.[304] For the marriageable
individual it has evidently been advantageous to be distinguished by
these extravagant transformations, which, as is well known, are usually
inflicted at the very time of puberty. And, on the other hand, among
individuals so distinguished, those who extort an interest for their
person by the most singular qualities ought to have an increased chance
of charming the opposite sex. In the discussion of sexual preferences
there has been much talk of a supposed constitutional predilection
for novelty and variation. But it is undoubtedly more in accordance
with the strictly psychological position to doubt whether, in the
primitive stages, novelty really has been appreciated for its own
sake, or whether it is only by facilitating the attention, and thereby
intensifying the impression, that it has gained the favour of the
opposite sex for one particular male or female.

Whichever formula may be preferred in the interpretation, it remains
as an indisputable fact that even in some of the higher animals an
exceptional appearance gives an advantage in courtship. It is needless
to point out to how great an extent in civilised communities man is
influenced in sexual preference by a bias for a peculiar appearance
which distinguishes the chosen one from any other man or woman. This
predilection, however, is always neutralised by a repugnance for
everything that deviates too much from the common characteristics of
the group. The two principles which have regulated the development
of secondary sexual characters—to wit, the necessity of marks for
accentuating sex-distinction and that of tribal signs—are thus
brought into conflict with each other. This conflict is particularly
conspicuous in the lower stages of development. Owing to the peculiar
conditions of life which prevail here, the second principle will
generally be of especial importance among the savage tribes of mankind.

The observation has often been made that too great uniformity of
work impedes the development of individual characters in physical
appearance. In savage communities, where the division of labour is
almost unknown, all men must necessarily be more or less like one
another.[305] Especially if the home of the tribe be some closely
defined area of uniform climatic conditions, there will be within
the tribe almost no material for selection. Where endogamic marriage
prevails, the conception “lover,” which is transmitted from mother to
daughter, and which, by “objective heredity,” becomes imprinted on
the mind of every girl that grows up in this narrow _milieu_, must
therefore be one with a very restricted content. Alongside of this
increasing predilection for a fixed and narrowly circumscribed type
of the opposite sex there will, as its complementary feeling, develop
a strong antipathy to every feature that diverges from this type. For
the evolution of national ideals this negative influence has been of
perhaps even greater importance than the positive preferences.

It is evident that strictly endogamous marriage customs could never
be upheld in tribes which have any intercourse with their neighbours
if the social institution were not supported by a real psychological
aversion to outsiders. It has therefore been congruous with the
advantages of society to promote in the youth the feeling that any man
or woman outside the tribe is a being with whom no emotional exchange
is to be thought of. To make this feeling possible, on the other hand,
it is necessary that everything which is connected with the foreigner
should be held up to contempt. Their dress, their language, their
manners, and so on, have thus been considered as something to be kept
at a distance. It is needless to point out that marriage systems are
not alone responsible for the development of this feeling. Religious
differences, so important in primitive communities, have undoubtedly
often given rise to the common notion that people outside one’s own
tribe do not, properly speaking, belong to the human species. Continual
war induces a feeling of contempt, which in the stronger tribe is
mingled with pride and in the weaker with bitterness, and which in
both cases extends to the smallest details of physical appearance and
behaviour. And apart from all regard to these social causes, the
primitive man, in civilised as well as in savage nations, is always apt
to look upon everything unusual with a feeling of scornful disdain. No
doubt such a disdain can even be coincident with exogamous marriage
customs. But it seems evident that it must everywhere have strongly
influenced sexual selection during those unknown endogamic periods in
which the racial and tribal differences were developed and fixed.[306]
And it may even now be observed among living tribes of man to how
great a degree antipathy to every detail in the outward appearance of
foreigners precludes union between members of different tribes. The
national and parochial dresses of modern peasants no doubt exercise
a great influence on the love-life of the respective boys and girls.
The most telling example that could be quoted in this connection is
the case of Savakot and Äyrämäiset in Eastern Finland. When examining
a Savakko youth as to the reason why none of his tribe had ever
chosen a wife from among their neighbours, Ahlqvist[307] received the
characteristic answer: “Se kuin on heillä Äyrämäisillä niin hirveä
vaatteen manieri niin siihen ei meidän pojat uskalla puuttua”—that is,
As these Äyrämä girls have such horrid dresses, our boys do not dare to
approach them.

This instance, although it is one of modern times and refers to
relatively civilised individuals, can no doubt be considered as
illustrative with regard to the distinguishing marks and dresses of
primitive men. The outward signs of the tribe not only exercise a
strong attraction upon all its members; they are also for outsiders
associated with a repugnance which is perhaps equally strong. In
the same way as it has been advantageous for the young of both
sexes to have an appearance which appeals as powerfully as possible
to the instinctive predilections of the opposite sex, it has been
necessary for them not to exhibit qualities which could be confounded
with those of the alien. The individual who endeavours to attract
attention for his person by a conspicuous and extravagant appearance
is, therefore, narrowly restricted within the boundaries prescribed by
tribal sympathies and antipathies. The safest expedient by which to
distinguish himself from others without outraging the national idea is,
therefore, that of exaggerating the common characteristics of the tribe.

These theoretical reasonings can be amply corroborated by ethnological
facts. As early as 1814 Humboldt observed and commented upon the
fact that the deformations which appear most arbitrary generally
only tend to carry into excess some natural peculiarity of the
tribe.[308] And since his time, numerous instances have been adduced
in the ethnological literature, all pointing in the same direction.
In the case of people who blacken their teeth it has been remarked
that the dental enamel is naturally darker than usual; where heads
are artificially deformed, it is found that there exists a general
disposition to develop pointed or flat crania; where the hair-growth
is scanty, baldness is artificially produced; and so forth.[309] By
exaggerating and accentuating in their own appearance the common
qualities of the tribe, the individual males or females have thus
created a more and more differentiated tribal type. And the inherited
predilections and aversions of the opposite sex have, on the other
hand, by continuously influencing positive and negative choice,
contributed to the fixing of these types as tribal ideals, not of
beauty, but of sexual attractiveness.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                    THE ORIGINS OF SELF-DECORATION


It is evident, as might be proved by more numerous and detailed
references than it has been possible to adduce above, that precisely
such bodily deformations, such systems of distinguishing ornament,
and such conspicuous articles of clothing and decoration as are
most generally found among both the primitive and the cultivated
tribes of mankind have been of especial importance as means of
sexual attraction. Nothing could be more natural, therefore, than
to explain the various forms of cosmetics as so many endeavours to
work upon the preferences—whether arising from the æsthetic sense or
from associated ideas of sexual excitement—of the opposite sex. Such
an explanation, moreover, derives support from the assertion of the
primitives themselves, who often positively state that they dress and
array themselves for the purpose of winning the love of their women.
And it has on its side the merits of simplicity and unity. By bringing
together under one head all the different forms of self-decorative art
it disentangles the different questions of primitive æsthetics in a
most plausible manner.

However alluring this uniform explanation may be for lovers of
clearness and theoretical consistency, it must nevertheless be
abandoned upon an impartial examination of the ethnological facts.
It is no doubt conceivable that a more or less conscious desire of
acquiring the favour of the opposite sex should have called forth
all the various means of attraction. As was shown above, they could
in such a case have scarcely developed a more effectual conformation
than they really have done. But from the effect we are not entitled
to draw any conclusion as to the intention. When considering all the
various motives, often almost incomprehensible to the civilised mind,
which govern the activities of primitive man, one loses the confidence
that is necessary in order to accept any general explanation, however
probable it may seem. A careful and impartial examination can only lead
to the result that scarcely any form of dress or ornament can be quoted
which could be considered with certainty as an outcome of the impulse
to attract and charm the opposite sex.

To begin with the class which stands in the closest connection with
sexual life, we have already shown that all the various coverings by
which primitive man conceals his nakedness, by attracting the attention
are likely to produce a sort of sexual stimulation in the primitive
spectator.[310] In some cases,—for instance that of the dancing
girdles, which are especially put on for the occasion of erotic dances
and festivals,—this stimulation is evidently intentional.[311] But it
seems impossible to assume that a knowledge of this effect can have
been the motive for the use of those phallocrypts which are worn by
the Amaxosas in South Africa, by the natives of Central Brazil, by
the Melanesians in the Admiralty Islands and on the north-western
and south-western coasts of New Guinea, by the Australians of
north-western Central Queensland, and by the Polynesians of the
Marquesas Islands.[312] As far as we know, it is only in Australia
that these things are especially employed at corroborees and public
rejoicings.[313] Nor is there anything that could attract the eye
in all the simple bamboo sheets that can be seen at the Museum für
Völkerkunde in Berlin. In some cases they have perhaps been worn for
the purely practical purpose of protecting a sensitive part against
insect bites.[314] But it seems more probable, on an examination of
their shape, that they really are intended as means of concealment in
the proper meaning of the word. There is of course no reason why they
should not be considered as fulfilling the requirements of modesty.
But even if such be their purpose now, it is difficult to assume that
they were originally called into existence by a feeling which, from the
evolutionist point of view, one rather would consider as a product of
clothes than as their cause.[315]

This difficulty, however, is easily avoided by reference to another
feeling which in psychical evolution has probably preceded the
appearance of modesty. It is perhaps impossible to decide at what
stage sexual life began to be surrounded with feelings of shame,—in
other words, in what instances one is entitled to speak of modesty
and conscious chastity. But there is no doubt that even among the
lowest savages the facts of generation are regarded with a wonder
which sometimes approaches awe, and sometimes rises to religious
respect.[316] Since at a somewhat higher degree of development phallic
symbols occupy so dominant a place in religious systems, it is only
natural to suppose that the realities represented by these symbols
have been regarded by the primitive with superstitious feelings. It is
probable, therefore, that there are many primitive tribes which, in the
same way as the aborigines of the New Hebrides, cover themselves in the
most scrupulous manner, “not at all from a sense of decency, but to
avoid Narak, _i.e._ magic influence,” the sight even of another man’s
nakedness being considered as most dangerous.[317] The large prevalence
of phallic motives in amulets and magically protecting paintings,[318]
the supposed effective sorcery of indecent gestures, so widely used
even now by the modern Italians,[319] indicate that the organs of
generation have been universally considered as the seat of a powerful
and dangerous magic. Perhaps this superstitious idea has even been
the original source of the notion that exposure involves the gravest
offence against the honour of the beholder.[320] Sometimes, on the
other hand, dread of this supposed mysterious power may have prompted
the evolution of moral institutions, and thus indirectly furthered
the moral feelings. But it is evident that even before any such
transformation took place regard for public safety may have induced the
males to conceal the seat of so dangerous an influence.

The reproductive organs, however, are not only, in virtue of
their connection with the mysterious miracle of life, objects of
superstitious awe: they themselves, owing to the same consideration,
need more than anything else to be protected against dangerous
influences. Fear of the evil eye has thus, as Ratzel suggests, had
something to do with the origin of male and female dress.[321] And the
notion of malignant looks is only one of the superstitions that keep
the savage man in a state of constant fear. All the innumerable spirits
that populate his atmosphere constitute so many dangers, against which
he has to protect himself by every possible means. This necessity is
probably even greater for the female sex than for the men.

In Messrs. Spencer and Gillen’s work on Australia there is one passage
which suggests another possible cause for the origin of female dress.
When speaking about the souls of ancestors, which, for the purpose of
reincarnation, try to find a way to the bodies of young women, the
authors say that “spirit children are also supposed to be especially
fond of travelling in whirlwinds, and on seeing one of these, which
are very frequent at certain times of the year, approaching her a
woman will at once run away.”[322] Now, this notion that the wind
is capable of bringing about impregnation is by no means confined
to the Australian aborigines. Mr. Hartland has been able to adduce
testimonies of its occurrence not only in savage tribes, but also among
the Romans of Virgil’s time.[323] And the Hottentots have an almost
similar superstition, viz. that a pouring rain, when falling on the
naked body, promotes conception.[324] The belief in the fertilising
powers of sunshine, well known from European folklore and frequently
illustrated in literature, from the Danaë legends upwards to the
mysterious warnings of Hamlet to Ophelia, can of course be quoted as
indications of the same universal “folk-belief.”[325] It would only be
natural if the women, who so anxiously try to escape from the dangers
of fecundation that surround them on all sides in the atmosphere, had
found out the simple expedient of protecting themselves by clothing.

We cannot, of course, positively assert that the wearing of clothes was
originally due to superstitious reasons. We have only wished to point
out that such an hypothesis can be proposed and consistently defended.
It accounts not only for the especial character of the simplest
dresses, but also, which is more important, for the fact of their being
adopted only when sexual maturity is reached.

There are other reasons, moreover, why this last-mentioned
circumstance, which apparently affords so strong support to the
theory of Darwin and his followers, cannot be adduced as decisively
solving the problem of purely decorative garments. In laying so great a
stress upon the time of life when the body is decorated for the first
time,[326] the advocates of the theory of erotic propitiation seem
to have overlooked that almost everywhere sexual maturity coincides
with civic majority. There is thus something to be said for the view
that tattooing, feather-dresses, and so on, are conferred upon young
men and women as outward signs of their changed status. And similarly
all ulterior decorations can be explained as indications of later
acquired rank. In ethnological literature, especially in German works,
a great body of facts has been produced which speak in favour of such
an analogy between primitive ornaments and modern signs of rank and
merit.[327] By relying on this interpretation too we may often explain,
without any reference to the advantages of courtship, the fact that
in primitive races men are generally more decorated than women. An
extreme Darwinist may perhaps object that the proportion between the
ornaments of the sexes has been inverted since the male sex began
to practise selection. But it is to be remembered that even now in
the classes for which rank distinctions are most important, viz. in
military and diplomatic circles, men generally are more gorgeously
arrayed than women.[328] And it may further be adduced as an exception
which proves the rule that on Pelew and Ponape Islands, where mothers
give children their rank, women are richly tattooed.[329]

It cannot of course be contended that man at the lowest stages of
culture could have intentionally created a fixed system of signs for
denoting rank and merit. Anything of that kind presupposes a social
differentiation which has not yet been arrived at by all savage tribes.
In thus substituting distinction-marks for the means of attraction one
might therefore apparently be exposed to the reproof of preferring the
complex to the simple. Such a criticism must, however, lose its force
when applied to the theories which try to trace the development of
distinctive marks back to their most simple and primitive sources. Von
den Steinen, in whose work these questions are subjected to a detailed
study, has, with special reference to the Xingu tribes in the interior
of Brazil, succeeded in amply corroborating the theory of Spencer
that the simplest ornaments have been trophies of war and chase. In
the feather crowns of the chiefs, for example, we may thus see only
a later development of proudly arranged spoils of chase, by which a
successful hunter proclaims his achievements.[330] And the incised
scars so common among savage tribes can, in accordance with the same
ingenious explanation, be considered as imitations of the glorious
wounds with which eminent warriors have been adorned when returning
from battle.[331]

In the cases where this interpretation holds true the chief aim of
the decoration is, of course, not to make the man more beautiful and
charming, but only to show off his skill and courage, and thus to
inspire respect and fear. It is needless to point out that in times
of war such decorations must be of eminent advantage by inspiring
their wearer with pride at the same time that they strike his enemies
with terror. But boasting adornments are by no means restricted to
military purposes. Many apparently ornamental scars and tattooings are
probably worn as proud traces of heroic feats performed at initiations
or funeral ceremonies.[332] And, to quote instances of less lofty
pride, there is no end to the cases in which gems are worn chiefly for
producing an impression of wealth.[333] It would be absurd to suppose
that this show of valour or wealth must always be addressed to women.
The impulse to ostentation has thus undeniably, independent of sexual
selection, aided in the origin of self-decoration.

It is not necessary for the present purpose to submit to a close
analysis all the other theories of bodily embellishment which oppose an
unrestricted application of the Darwinian interpretation. Suffice it
to say that facts exist which support almost every one of these views.
Thus it seems quite unquestionable that tattooings often serve as a
means of conveying intellectual information.[334] Not only are exploits
of valour which provide an occasion for boasting ornament registered by
incisions on the body, but this primitive record may also be used in
order to commemorate other events that have made a great impression on
the individual in question.

The most instructive example of such essentially commemorative
self-decoration that is known in ethnological literature is no doubt
the tattooing of Tepane, the native of the Eastern Island whom Dr.
Stolpe met in Tahiti. On his right fore-arm this highly interesting
individual wore a pattern which, although insignificant at first
sight, on closer examination showed itself to be nothing less than
a pictorial description of the memorable event when the great stone
idols, now outside the British Museum, were hauled down from their
original place to the British ship which was going to take them over
sea. Among the figures on this little historical picture Tepane himself
was able to point out the first and second officer of the _Topaz_,
who, standing somewhat apart, watched the work of the sailors.[335] It
is indeed exceptional to meet with such complete realistic drawings
among the “motives” of tattoo. But there is no doubt that by symbolical
representation sights and events have often been recorded on the body,
this most primitive of all commonplace-books.

There is no default of instances showing that decoration, fixed as well
as detached, has been largely used as a magical protection against
illness, bewitching, or evil eye.[336] This superstitious intention
appears with unmistakable evidence in the decorations of the Xingu
tribes of the interior Brazil, where children and pregnant women,
_i.e._ persons who particularly need to be guarded against malignant
influences, are richly decorated with collars of beads, teeth, bones,
and so on.[337] Among these Indians Professor von den Steinen was also
able to find some typical examples of the process, which has been
observed in several other tribes, by which a cosmetic painting of
the body is developed from a purely practical greasing with earth or
fat, executed in order to preserve the skin against weather or insect
bites.[338]

Perhaps more important still than any of the above-mentioned motives
is the one to which Herr Lippert has called attention.[339] In a
nation where, owing to the undeveloped division of labour, all people
necessarily become more or less like each other, the individual must,
he thinks, feel a strong desire to develop a fixed ego, a personality
apart, which can be distinguished from all his fellows. This craving
may perhaps, as Lippert thinks, have something to do with the growth
of a philosophical consciousness. But it may also be considered from
a purely practical point of view. In the same way as ornaments on
weapons and implements often serve as owners’ marks,[340] so the
ornaments on the body may serve as means of identifying, for social
and political purposes, the man who is decorated with them. The
Moko patterns of the Maoris, for instance, have in fact been used
as legally recognised marks, and copies of them applied, instead of
signatures, to documents.[341] Whether the utilitarian or the more
philosophic explanation be preferred, it is evident that, even if there
had been no necessity to attract the attention of the opposite sex,
the impulse to create an appearance which is at least to some degree
personal would have led to the different systems of embellishment.
Thus among people who wear clothes any details in dresses and gems
would be made distinctive; where the naked body is lightly coloured,
so as to make tattooing conspicuous, distinguishing patterns would
be incised; among darker nations, on the other hand, simple scars
would be cut; and finally, in the blackest tribes, on whose skin not
even scars stand out, modes of hair-dressing would afford a last
expedient for differentiation. And it is evident that tribes in their
intercourse with each other would be led by the same considerations as
individuals.[342] Even in a fictitious unisexual mankind there might
thus have appeared precisely the same kind of common and fixed signs
by which tribes are differentiated from each other, and of individual
signs by which members of the same tribe are distinguished by
variations from the common type. These signs must necessarily, as was
shown in the foregoing, exercise a powerful influence on the opposite
sex, and their development may therefore have been to some extent
furthered by sexual selection. But it seems impossible to contend that
they have been invented only for the purposes of courtship.[343]

We have deemed it superfluous to report in this connection all
the instances which show that among sundry tribes of mankind
self-decoration is executed especially with a view of pleasing. For
copious collections of such facts it is sufficient to refer to the
works of Westermarck and Joest. Other interesting instances have later
been communicated by Finsch, Stirling, Stoke, and others.[344] While
necessarily sceptical with regard to theories on sexual preference as
a universal, art-creating influence, we have of course no reason to
doubt the accuracy of individual statements. From the point of view of
the present research we have only to emphasise the fact that there is
no possibility of deciding with any certainty in how great a degree
considerations for the favour of the opposite sex have influenced the
development of self-decoration.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                              EROTIC ART


When from the discouraging examination of decorative arts as connected
with sexual selection we turn our attention to the department of poetry
and drama, we reasonably expect to attain some less ambiguous results.
In every work of literary art one should think that the subject ought
to afford some indication as to its purpose. The dances, songs, and
pantomimes of the lower tribes are, however, in this respect not very
instructive. No doubt there can be quoted a great number of artistic
manifestations in which love is represented or described in all its
phases. But we are not thereby justified in assuming that these dramas,
pantomimes, and poems were called into existence by the preferences of
the other sex. It would be absurd to adduce the pornographic art of
modern times as proof of sexual selection. And it is equally absurd
to cite in favour of Darwin’s thesis travellers’ tales of indecent
dances or ceremonies in which no mention is made of the presence of the
opposite sex.

On the other hand, it must be conceded that the influence of sex on the
evolution of art cannot, as Mr. Spencer seems to think, be completely
disproved by an appeal to the mere fact that erotic motives occupy so
insignificant a space in the most primitive art.[345] Even if there
were any certainty that the existing dearth of information on erotic
dances and poems corresponds with a real lack of erotic art, it might
still be maintained that the favour of the other sex was the aim of all
the purely lyrical kinds of music and dance. And the analogy with our
own stage of culture might be adduced as a witness that activities and
manifestations which in their original purpose are anything but erotic
may still be used as effective means of courtship. War dances, for
example, in which all the qualities of the male body are displayed must
of course be eminently capable of charming the opposite sex. Although
undoubtedly called into existence by the need of military exercise and
warlike stimulation, this kind of dramatic art may therefore have been
assisted in its development by the encouraging influence of female
spectators.[346] In which cases such an influence has operated, and
how great have been its effects, can only be determined by a close
examination not only of the works of art themselves, but also, and
chiefly, of the circumstances connected with the performance of them.
As poetry and drama on primitive stages generally have reference to a
particular occasion, these circumstances ought to appear with greater
clearness than in the case of pictorial arts.

For the purposes of this research there is, however, a great deficiency
of reliable information. In the descriptions of dances and pantomimes
which can be gathered from the literature of travel the most important
point is generally omitted—whether the performances in question
were executed in the presence of the other sex or not. From the
general records of savage life one may indeed draw some conclusions
bearing upon this question. But these conclusions, even when, taken
apart, they seem to be sufficiently reliable, are, when considered
collectively, full of contradiction. With regard to a great number
of tribes the strict separation between the sexes which prevails in
all phases of social life—in work as well as in amusements—provides a
negative argument against the theory of female influence on art. This
circumstance has of course been adduced by opponents of the selection
theory; and it was Mr. Gurney’s chief objection to Wagner’s assertion
that the earliest popular dances were erotic pantomimes.[347] But
the adherents of Darwin’s theory are no less able to support their
assertion by ethnological facts. This is made obvious, for instance,
by Wallaschek’s _Primitive Music_, which work, as far as we know,
gives the most complete account existent of primitive dances and
pantomimes. After having enumerated a great variety of tribes in which
the sexes are separated when dancing, the author says, “As a rule,
however, both sexes dance together.” And he then corroborates this
statement by a still greater number of instances in which dances, often
of a decidedly erotic character, are performed either by both sexes
together or by one sex before the other.[348] Thus facts confront
facts in a most bewildering contradiction which is indeed trying to
the believer in ethnological argumentation. No sound statistician
would base any conclusions on majorities made up of such confused
masses of contradictory instances. The question of sex influence on art
would therefore be for ever undecided if there were no expedient for
classifying the units and balancing them against each other in greater
groups.

Such a classification is of course no less possible than it is
necessary. But it presupposes a close examination of every single
instance quoted. Owing to our insufficient knowledge of some of the
most interesting tribes, a satisfactory arrangement is therefore as
yet involved in great difficulty. In this work, at any rate, it would
not be possible to enter into all these detailed researches. We shall
restrict ourselves to a few short indications of the mode in which we
think that this much-debated question is to be solved.

In all that has been written against Darwin’s _Descent of Man_ there is
perhaps nothing that is so relevant to the main issue as Mr. Hudson’s
criticism. He observes that Darwin has gathered together from all
regions of the globe unconnected facts about various species without
closely examining the habits and actions of these species.[349] It
goes without saying that such an examination would be extremely
difficult with regard to animals, the social life of which is as yet
so insufficiently known. For one not a zoologist, at least, it would
be too audacious to present any classification of the instances, and
therefore we did not even mention this possibility in the treatment
of animal art. In this connection, however, one may suggest, without
positively asserting, that perhaps even the animal manifestations of
dance and music may be classified in groups which correspond to the
prevailing social conditions of the respective species. There is at
least a striking similarity between the types of song, serene with
all their passion, with which the males of the monogamous songsters
entertain their mates—those mates which, if one may believe the
brothers Müller, have been chosen even before the pairing season.[350]
And, on the other hand, these graceful and harmonious utterances stand
in the strongest contrast to the vehement display of promiscuous
wood-birds and polygamous fowl.

However presumptuous it may be to draw any general conclusions from
these coincidences, it is evidently indispensable, when treating of
sexual selection in man, to look for some connection between the
various forms of courtship and prevailing social institutions. This
necessity was fully understood by Darwin himself.[351] But it has
been too much overlooked by his successors, who, when discussing his
thesis, have defended or attacked it by promiscuous collections of
facts in which barbaric Malays and degenerate Polynesians are quoted
alongside primitives like the Veddas and Fuegians. If this confusion
is disentangled by a proper arrangement of the instances according
to stages of culture, the seeming inconsistency of the ethnological
evidence will be removed.

There is a _prima facie_ ground for believing that the employment of
art for gaining the favour of the other sex is characteristic of a
certain advance in social development. The tribes in which we have most
reason to suppose that the practice of self-decoration does not rest
on political or religious grounds, and may thus aim exclusively at
pleasing, are to be found among the Polynesians, the Malays, and some
of the nations of India. From Polynesia also Berchon derived his chief
support for the curious assertion—which seems to be true of scarcely
any other ethnological province—that the patterns used in tattooing are
quite indifferent, provided only that they effectually embellish the
decorated part of the body;[352] in short, that tattooing has a purely
decorative purpose. With regard to dancing, there also is practised in
Tahiti, by the dramatic society of the Areoi, a dance most typical of
the kind which aims at an erotic excitement in the spectators.[353]

As is well known, the “oriental” dancing, such as is performed in the
barbaric Negro states and in the Mohammedan communities of Northern
Africa, as well as in Persia, Turkey, China, and Japan, is mainly a
gross pantomime of physical love executed by a woman to the delight of
her male spectators.[354] In most of these cases, however, the dancers
are outcast women, who are paid with money for their performance.

Somewhat closer, it seems, is the connection between erotic dance
and sexual selection in the native population of the East Indian
Islands.[355] And finally, among the aboriginal tribes of India, the
Mundaris, Rasas, Kolhs, Sonthals, Bhuiyas, Chukmas, and Khyoungthas,
courtship is pervaded by art and æsthetic activities.[356] In some of
the villages there still survives the same kind of romantic love-making
which is so well known from the old Indian poems and tales. The
Bhuiya youths pay visits to the camp of the girls, and are received
by them with dances and songs; and, says Mr. Dalton, “after such
daylong festivals the morning dawns on more than one pair of pledged
lovers.”[357] In the Bayar tribe one of the “methods of bringing about
marriage” is a dance, performed by both sexes, who face each other in
rows and exchange impromptu love couplets. Similar festivals are also
met with among the Bendkars and Khonds.[358] The Hos and Mundaris, on
the other hand, afford an example of sexual selection in its grossest
form at their yearly festivals, during which excited dionysiac
dances and obscene and blasphemous speeches are connected with wild
promiscuous orgies.[359]

In the improvised ditties that are sung during these dances Darwin
would, of course, have found the most convincing proofs of the
applicability of his theory to poetry. Among love-inspired songs
few specimens can be found which are so genuine, and at the same
time so full of delicate feeling, as the harvest antiphonies sung by
the Khyoungtha boys and girls.[360] How high an opinion of the power
in poetry to charm is held by these tribes can be judged from the
fact that the Chukmas never allow any songs but those of a religious
character to be sung in their villages. Our girls would be demoralised,
they say, if boys were allowed to sing freely. When living in the
jungle, however, where the rules of morality are laxer, the Chukmas
allow their poetry greater license.[361]

It is needless to say that some kind of erotic poetry is generally to
be found in all the tribes where dancing expresses love. There have
been translated some exquisite samples of erotic songs composed by the
Malay tribes of Java and Sumatra. In some instances it is quite evident
that these songs have been used as means of winning the favour of the
women. In other cases, however, it seems safest to draw no conclusions
as to their purpose. At any rate, love occupies an important place in
the poetry which has been collected in Malaysia, not only among the
Malays proper, but also among the Tagals, Alfuras, Battaks, etc.[362]

In some of their dancing songs the Australian aboriginal poets are said
to describe the charms of their sweethearts.[363] But we know of no
poems in which they appear to be directly addressed. Neither have we
found any decisive statement as to the character of the erotic poetry
in Tahiti and New Zealand.[364]

Purer and more unmistakable examples of singing used as a means of
erotic propitiation can be adduced from some of the American nations.
The Iroquois, for whom dancing festivals are of great importance
in the intercourse between the sexes, are well aware of the powers
of a serenade when they wish to entice a girl from her hut to a
meeting.[365] In old Mexico and Peru, where erotic poetry had reached
a high degree of refinement, songs and music were undoubtedly used in
courtship.[366] But with these barbaric but not savage peoples we have
already left primitive man far behind.

It is undeniable that increased knowledge of the various tribes of
mankind may necessitate important corrections in the above review
of erotic art. There might be collected, for instance, specimens of
love-inspired poetry from the really primitive tribes, such as the
Veddas, the Fuegians, etc. Perhaps also it may be proved that dancing
and singing really serve the purposes of erotic propitiation to a much
greater extent than travellers hitherto have been able to discover. But
the general conclusions are very unlikely to be changed by any further
researches. It is sufficiently obvious that the Darwinian æsthetic
has its chief support in the productions of barbaric nations, whose
social conditions have been eminently favourable for the development of
erotic art. This view might be in danger if we had no knowledge of any
artistic activity in the most primitive tribes. But as a relatively
developed religious drama, and perhaps even some traditional mythical
songs have been found among the Fuegians;[367] as the Veddas have at
least one dance, possibly religious, and various magic poems;[368]
as the Bushmen are masters of pictorial art and develop a great
dramatic power in their pantomimic imitations of animals;[369] as
among the Australians the surprisingly high development of theatrical
management and instruction[370] stands in the strongest contrast to
their poor erotic lyric;—in a word, as the religious, superstitious,
and traditional forms of art among the lower savages have such an
unmistakable predominance over those of erotic propitiation, there is
no ethnological support for the assertion that the beginnings of art
were due to the impulse “to attract by pleasing.”

It may, of course, be argued that the Fuegians, the Veddas, the
Bushmen, and the rest, far from representing primitive man, are really
to be considered as degenerate types. And it may furthermore be
contended that before marriage customs and other social institutions
had reached those forms which now prevail among the lower tribes, the
promiscuous intercourse between all males and females during a fixed
pairing season must have produced an erotic art. Whatever value
such reasoning may have, it at any rate implies the admission that
the art-creating influence of sexual selection cannot be _proved_
on _historical_ grounds. The question how primitive society is to
be reconstructed cannot as yet be considered to be finally solved.
But even if the original marriage customs had been such as Darwin
supposes, and even if courtship at this unknown stage of evolution had
been carried on by means of art,[371] the fact that several existing
tribes appear to be quite devoid of poetic and dramatic forms of
erotic propitiation restricts the validity of Darwin’s principle in a
considerable degree.

       *       *       *       *       *

The attraction of the Darwinian theory is of course obvious. After
having realised the important part which sexual selection plays
in the “artistic” activities of animals, one is naturally tempted
to apply the same principle to all similar activities in men. The
influence of erotic preferences is a biological datum, and, as such,
a principle of a more universal order, so to speak, than any one of
the social or religious motives.[372] However advantageous it may
be to apply this all-embracing explanation to the whole field of
art, a descriptive study of the facts must needs compel us to pay
attention to the sociological influences which assist or impede the
operation of sexual selection. There is no doubt that there are some
secondary sexual characters and activities which are developed under
all social conditions. And it is no less certain that both sexes
are everywhere influenced by individual predilections. But these
predilections cannot, of course, be regarded as factors of importance
in a society where strictly-fixed marriage customs allow the partners
no freedom of choice. They will, on the other hand, produce special and
differentiated means of attraction where, either from demoralisation,
as in Tahiti, or as the result of institutional polygamy, as in the
Mohammedan countries, or owing to free and idyllic conditions of life,
as among the various tribes of India, competition for the favour of a
male or a female is unrestricted.

It is impossible, without transgressing the limits of the present
work, to give a complete account of the influences of society on
erotic art. An author who should be able to embrace in his treatment
all stages of evolution, the latest and most highly developed as
well as the earliest, would undoubtedly contribute an interesting
chapter to art-philosophy if he were to explain in detail and with
examples how, _e.g._, lyric poetry has changed with changed marriage
customs. Taking the art of historic nations, the contrast between
the literature of polygamous Orientals and that of Europeans, whose
notions of love are influenced by marriage institutions at least
officially monogamous, would afford an opportunity for most suggestive
comparisons. And even within the limits of modern art a comparison
perhaps equally instructive may be made between the different classes
of society with their varying forms of sexual life. No task could be
more interesting than that of finding out to how great an extent the
marvellously refined and differentiated expressions of romantic love
which characterise some schools of modern poetry are dependent upon
the peculiar forms of sexual life prevailing among the upper classes.
As social factors of powerful, though never sufficiently recognised
influence, the veiled polyandry and polygamy which lie at the bottom
of modern society have undoubtedly influenced æsthetic notions as well
as artistic activities. By causing a division of the sexual impulses
these conditions have facilitated the development of an ideal and
æsthetic love-literature which never would have appeared, and cannot
even be understood, among nations where this division does not exist.
On the other hand, the same causes have, as it is needless to point
out, produced a literature and an art which, by their deliberate
grossness, stand in the strongest contrast not only to the romantic
utterances of civilised nations, but even to the more naïve products of
primitive tribes.

We cannot in this connection do more than indicate these general views,
the validity of which may be easily tested by the reader by application
to modern art. Within the boundaries of ethnological art—that is,
between the stages of evolution represented by Tierra del Fuego on
one side and ancient Mexico at the other end—there can, however, be
found sufficient proofs of the general law which manifests itself more
fully in the richer and more highly differentiated products of modern
art. Love, although fundamentally one and uniform as a feeling, is in
its utterances ever changing with changing conditions of life. If its
ground is biological, its nuances are always determined by sociological
influences. Without taking into due account all these nuances it is
impossible to assert anything about the influences of sexual selection
on art.

The considerations adduced in this chapter have led to results which,
by their negative character, may seem to be very unsatisfactory. It
was shown first of all that artistic activities, in so far as they
emphasise the qualities of either sex, must necessarily exercise an
attractive influence on the opposite sex. From a psychological point
of view we tried to prove that the various forms of self-decoration,
such as are to be met with among primitive tribes, must have been
eminently effectual as means of such attraction. But we were, on the
other hand, compelled to admit that the primary origin of dress and
ornaments in many cases could be quite as well explained without any
reference to the relation between the sexes. Thus it became necessary
to examine closely the dramatic and poetic art for the purpose of
ascertaining in which tribes competition for the favour of the opposite
sex can be assumed as a cause of the art. The ethnological evidence,
as quoted in the works on sexual selection, appeared too incomplete
and inconsistent to admit of any general conclusions being drawn, and
it seemed indispensable to sift the information as well as to classify
the instances. Instead of one all-explaining principle, which could be
applied in all the various cases, we were confronted by a multitude
of causes and conditions, all of which needed to be investigated
separately and weighed against each other. A reader who thinks every
discussion fruitless which leads to no dogmatic conclusion might
perhaps object that our re-examination of this much-debated question
has utterly failed in its purposes. We may, however, be allowed to
point out that although our investigation has not led to any definite
estimate of the importance of sexual preferences for the development of
art, it may perhaps have contributed in some degree to the elucidation
of the connection between art, beauty, and sex.

We have seen that even in the conditions which are the most favourable
for its influence, sexual selection can never by itself create any
quality of beauty. What kind of ideal the preferences of either sex
are able to call into existence is sufficiently shown by the hideous
deformations of the body which are to be found among primitive tribes
as well as among the most civilised nations. Wherever, through
favourable conditions of life and work, beauty, _i.e._ grace and
harmony, is developed in the human body and its movements, there these
qualities will often be enhanced by the selection that is exercised by
either sex. But this selection can, of course, be of influence only
where the sexes enjoy freedom of choice. This inquiry thus leads to the
general conclusion, which, we hope, will be confirmed by the reasoning
of all the following chapters, that the problems of beauty and art can
never be separated from the general problems of social life.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have endeavoured to show that sexual selection has only called
forth artistic activities in uncivilised man when the conditions have
been especially favourable. As a cause of artistic activity, sexual
_selection_ does not operate everywhere. But even where there is
no competition between rivals, sexual _emotions_ may still find an
artistic expression. In short, sexual selection is _a_ cause of erotic
art, but it is not the only cause. With less freedom of choice for
the females, there is, of course, less need for the males to develop
especial activities for the purpose of erotic propitiation. But even
where the female is thus deprived of the signal influence which she,
through her favouring or rejecting selection, can exercise on the
appearance and the activities of the race, her instinctive coyness may
necessitate some means of erotic persuasion. This purpose is already
served by the various kinds of caressing movements which are to be
found not only among men, but also among many species of animals.[373]
But it is also probable that primitive man, in the same way as the
birds, may have resorted to song and dance as a mode of winning the
female’s consent. These activities, which are preliminary to pairing,
cannot, of course, be of the same importance to evolution as those
which aim at securing preference in the selection of mates. But they
may none the less attain a high degree of development. In degenerate
tribes especially, erotic dancing is no doubt used as an effectual
aphrodisiac.

It is not necessary, however, to seek for biological advantages in
erotic dances, pantomimics, and poems. The strong emotional tension
which accompanies pairing must of itself give rise to some mode of
seeking relief by sound or movement. These manifestations, on the
other hand, will by association revive the pleasurable feelings with
which they have been connected. As, moreover, among primitive men
sexual exaltation is one of the strongest—in peaceful tribes even
_the_ strongest—feeling which occurs in their life, any other rapture
will borrow the form of its expression from this elementary passion.
It is well known that even in civilised nations intense delight tends
to express itself in erotic gestures. In some cases, as, _e.g._,
that of abnormal religious exaltation, one might think that a state
of high-strung emotion, by suspending all intellectual life, does in
fact leave a man at the mercy of overwhelming animal impulses. The
exaggerated devotion of all emotional religions sets at liberty the
_bête humaine_, which can be kept under control only by the continuous
competition with the higher faculties. In other instances, such as
those when people who have received some good news feel an inclination
to embrace or kiss each other, it is more natural to assume a process
of association. In either case the psychology of civilised man enables
us to understand why erotic dances are so generally used by primitive
tribes, even on occasions when they seem least appropriate.

It would be superfluous to undertake an ethnological review of erotic
motives in art. As we have already remarked in the preceding chapter,
there are tribes which, according to the reports of travellers,
not only are completely devoid of erotic art in the sense of
love-propitiation, but do not even allow love any place as a subject
of art. It seems, however, safest to draw no conclusions from this
deficiency of data. Erotic art, as everything else connected with
sexual life, has too often been overlooked by ethnological authors.
Savage, W. Ellis, Wyatt Gill, Romilly, and many others, consider
themselves bound by modesty to pass over such pantomimes as are “too
indelicate and obscene to be mentioned.”[374] Even the brothers
Sarasin, who otherwise have aimed at the greatest possible completeness
in their account of the Veddas, candidly say that they have observed
no “Lusttänze,” but also never inquired about them.[375] It would not
be surprising, therefore, if some less discreet traveller should at
some future time describe hitherto unknown erotic dances and songs
from, say, the Bushmen or the Andamanese. And there is the more reason
to anticipate that a closer intimacy with primitive man may bring to
light illustrations of erotic art, as in many savage tribes sexual
matters are hedged in by taboo, and are especially concealed from white
visitors.[376]

On the other hand it is very probable that the erotic element in
primitive art has often been overrated. It seems doubtful whether the
expressions “improper” and “indecent,” as used by the travellers in
descriptions of dances and dramas, are always intended to signify that
the representations in question were of an erotic nature.[377] And
even when, for the civilised spectator, a pantomime appears to be most
immoral, this impression may be due to a misunderstanding of its real
meaning. No doubt, ignorance of the language and the customs of the
various tribes has often occasioned false interpretations. Mr. Reeves,
who warns us against uncritical belief in travellers’ tales, has been
able to adduce from his own experience a most telling example of such
a mistake. When witnessing a performance of short dramas, “mekes,” in
Samoa, he and his party felt extremely shocked by the indecent action
of one of the interludes. Afterwards, however, he learned from the
natives that the objectionable pantomime was only intended to represent
the movements of a woman gathering fishes in a basket.[378]

In a descriptive account of primitive art it would, of course, be
necessary to reckon with all these inadequacies of ethnological
evidence. The general results, such as are wanted for a philosophical
treatment, would not be affected by corrections in single instances.
The probability is that in every tribe, independently of its social
state and of its forms of sexual selection, erotic feelings have always
expressed themselves in some way or other. With varying conditions
of life these modes of expression have, of course, acquired greater
or less importance for art. Where war occupies the attention of the
tribe to an exclusive degree, erotic motives can never occupy a
prominent place in art. Where, as is alleged to be the case among
some Australian tribes, notions of decorum forbid any expression of
the feelings of affection and love, love songs and dances will hardly
be publicly acknowledged in public art.[379] On the other hand, an
erotic literature will be prominent in such communities as that of
Tahiti.[380] And when, as in Kamschatka, poems generally are composed
by women, it is only natural that their subjects should be chiefly
“love, hate, grief, and hope.”[381] These facts are all so self-evident
that there is no need to argue upon them.

More interesting than all these sociological agencies is the influence
of prevailing religious and superstitious notions. As has been already
pointed out, sexual taboo has in many cases checked the development of
erotic poetry and dance as a public art. But perhaps more frequent than
the cases of such prevention are those where they have been furthered
by phallic systems of religion. This is of course an additional reason
for caution in accusing primitive art of immorality when it shocks our
feelings of modesty.[382] Thus the indecency of religious sculptures
connected with ancestor-worship has undoubtedly often a serious and
symbolical meaning.[383] In some tribes indecent pantomimes, which
otherwise are strictly forbidden, will be performed, evidently for
some superstitious reason, at funeral ceremonies.[384] Perhaps, also,
some superstitious notion about sympathetic magic lies behind the
obscene rites and songs which so often accompany wedding ceremonies.
This principle appears more unmistakable in the dramatic rites which
are performed by many people as means of removing sterility. Finally,
owing to a combination of sympathetic magic and animistic conceptions
of nature, erotic pantomime has acquired a prominent place among
agricultural rites.

All these manifestations of pictorial and literary art, which in aim
and intention cannot, properly speaking, be called erotic at all,
will be treated of in the following chapters. In this connection it
is only necessary to mention the naturalistic dramas which in Africa
and Australia are represented at the initiation of boys in manhood.
We need not explain that the performances in the male camps, by which
the youths are introduced to all the features of men’s life, naturally
assume an obscene character. But it is interesting that the pantomimes,
which, from our standpoint at least, are so revolting, sometimes seem
to be meant to serve the interests of morality. Mr. Mathews, in his
description of the Bora ceremony among the Kamilaroi, says that this
pantomimic representation was enacted for the purpose of teaching
youths to abstain from homo-sexual vices.[385] Knowing the degree
of immorality which has been reached by many savage tribes, one may
readily understand that the old men in the tribe have resorted to
these radical means of dissuading the boys from vice. And one feels
tempted to apply Mr. Mathews’ explanation to similar rites in other
tribes than the Kamilaroi. The initiation ceremonies of the Amazulus,
for instance, which would in no case be possible in any but extremely
degenerate nations, might be explained on the same hypothesis.[386]

It is significant that the Kamilaroi, in vindication of their obscene
art, have hit upon the very same apology which was adduced in defence
of the French literature of the eighteenth century. But in both cases,
among the primitives as well as in civilised communities, the supposed
beneficial effects of erotic art seem to be very questionable. Where
dances, dramas, and songs speak only of sensual pleasure, they will
soon kill intellectual inquisitiveness as well as zeal for work.
Sir Henry Johnston, who has more right than any one else to speak
about the populations of Africa, thinks that the sudden arrest in
the intellectual development of African boys which can generally be
noticed at the time of puberty is a result of the overpowering sexual
stimulation to which they are at that time exposed.[387] As the same
cause, _i.e._ an art and a social life which are full of erotic
suggestions, operates in many savage tribes, it may perhaps account
to some extent for the fact, recently commented upon by Kidd, that,
notwithstanding the marvellous teachableness of primitive children,
savages always prove inferior to white men after the attainment of
maturity.[388] And it gives a reason for the tendency—fruitless, no
doubt, but none the less sincere—which is to be found among some of
the strongest nations, the ancient Maori, for instance, to repress
and quench by all possible means the development of an art that aims
deliberately at erotic stimulation.[389]




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                             ART AND WORK


In our treatment of erotic art we have been led far away from the
connection between art and the maintenance of species. Whatever the
case may be for animals and those primitive men whose sexual life is
restricted within a short and fixed pairing season, an artificial
stimulation of the erotic feelings is no _biological_ requirement
for the existing tribes of man. Where art has mainly served this
purpose, it has not, as has been shown, by any means exercised a
beneficial influence on the race. The most typical illustrations in
the last chapter were therefore found in the artistic productions
of degenerate tribes which no doubt would, if brought into conflict
with less licentious neighbours, prove inferior in the struggle for
existence. And all these instances afford invaluable arguments to those
philosophers who consider art as a checking and weakening factor in
progress.

It is hoped, however, that the present chapter will contribute towards
the refutation of such one-sided views. We intend to adduce instances
from various stages of culture which will bring out the importance of
art as a favouring factor in the struggle for life.

It is evident that a pantomimic imitation of any activity must, as
exercise and stimulation, facilitate the subsequent real execution
of the same activity. Individuals and nations who have grown familiar
in play with the most important actions in life’s work have thus
acquired an unquestionable advantage in the struggle for existence.
After the publication of Professor Groos’s great works on animal and
human recreations it is needless to dwell upon this point. This eminent
psychologist has, with regard to the evolutionary value of sportive
representations—or, as he prefers to say, “præ-presentations”—of life,
been led to consider them as based on inherited instinctive impulses.
Instead of the play-impulse, which only serves to provide an outflow
for the superfluous energy in the organism, he has thus introduced
the conception of an activity which exercises an important positive
influence on life. And, on the other hand, his consummate researches
have brought out with especial clearness the intimate connection
between play and art. A great many of the instances he has collected
present all the technical qualifications of a manifestation of dramatic
art. As Groos himself remarks, only the addition of a disinterested
æsthetic attention in the players is needed in order to transform the
instinctive activities into artistic ones. How this transition has
taken place is a question which will undoubtedly be treated in the
great system of art-philosophy to which the hitherto published works
of Professor Groos constitute the introduction. We have therefore
only to point out how much support these views derive from the study
of primitive art. In the various tribes, with their differing types
of life, there is afforded a singular opportunity of observing the
connection between play, or art, and the serious occupations of life.
The games of the children, as well as the dances and pantomimes of
the full-grown, almost everywhere correspond to the prevailing
activities in the various communities. The North American Indians,
the Malays, the Maoris, the tribes of Central Asia, and others, all
furnish instances of the familiar law that the amusements of warlike
nations mainly consists in exercises which are preliminary to, or
reminiscent of, the experiences of battle. A war dance or a mimic
fight is the traditional type not only of their public entertainments,
but also of their state ceremonial. No example could be more telling
than that of the Dahomey state dances, which, however they may begin,
always seem to end with an imitation of the greatest social action in
the country—decapitation.[390] Where the struggle for existence is
a contest with nature and not with fellow-men, a hunting or fishing
pantomime usually takes the place of these military performances. It
is true that such representations of work often lose their importance
in national art when the conditions of life grow easier. Mr. Taplin
thus contrasts the rich and varied entertainments of the Polynesians,
who without any exertion obtain their subsistence from their bountiful
soil, with the amusements of the poor Narrinyeri, who even in their
dances and pantomimes have always practised “those arts which were
necessary to get a living.”[391] But it is significant that even the
inhabitants of these “happy islands” in their dramatic performances
introduce imitations of rowing, fighting, and other kinds of common
work. And at still higher degrees of development, where the division of
labour has given rise to special trades, all these various crafts will
often, as was the case in Dahomey, in ancient Peru, and in mediæval
Europe, be a favourite subject for pantomimic representation.[392]
If such representations have been of no especial value as exercise,
they may nevertheless, by bringing about an association between work
and pleasure, have made toil and labour less repugnant. The exertions
called forth by the struggle for existence have thus at all stages
of culture, except that of modern industrialism, been to some extent
facilitated by art.

Perhaps even more important in their influences than the imitation of
work in play or drama are the artistic activities which accompany the
actual performance of work. As these kinds of dance and song have been
somewhat overlooked by Professor Groos, there is reason to make them
the subject of a closer investigation.

When explaining the manifestations of art which can thus, in the
literal meaning of the word, be called songs and dances of action,
we have to divide our attention between two different points of
view. First, the need of stimulation and regulation of the work of
the individual, and, second, the need of co-operation in the work of
different individuals. In both these respects art has had an importance
among primitive tribes which can scarcely be overrated.

It is well known that at a lower degree of mental development
the power of instantaneous muscular exertion is far less than
among educated men. Broca’s experiments showed that artisans with
somewhat trained intelligence generally reached higher figures on a
dynamometer than working men who were only used to bodily exertions.
And the Negroes, whose forces were tested by Féré, were far below
the average of Europeans.[393] As in these experiments the natives
were introduced to new and unaccustomed movements, the evidence of
the psychometric apparatus must be considered as somewhat extenuated
by the circumstances. Broadly speaking, these experiments can,
however, be taken as indications of a general psychological law.[394]
The experimental evidence is, moreover, corroborated by the common
complaints of Europeans who have had to rely on natives. The slowness
with which the primitive man gets into swing with his work has no
doubt been referred to times without number by slavekeepers when
advocating their methods of treating natives. Strange to say, there are
some tribes which themselves candidly admit their own inertness, and
voluntarily submit to whipping in order to get “their blood a little
agitated.”[395]

The slowness and the insensibility of the Guarani are, however,
as appears from Mr. Rengger’s description, exceptional and
pathological.[396] But it seems as if almost all tribes had invented
some means of inciting themselves to work. Only, these means are seldom
such as Europeans would feel inclined to avail themselves of when
urging on their workers. That they can nevertheless be as effectual as
even the slavekeepers whip is shown by Signor Salvado. His description
of his experiences with Australian natives as farm-labourers is
delightful: “How often,” says he, “have I not used their dancing songs
in order to encourage and urge them on in their work. I have seen them,
not once, but a thousand times lying on the ground with minds and
bodies wearied by their labour; yet as soon as they heard me singing
the Machielò-Machielé, which is one of their commonest and favourite
dancing songs, they would yield to an irresistible impulse, and rise
and join me with their voices. They would even begin to dance joyfully
and contentedly, especially when they saw me singing and dancing among
them, like any other savage. After a few minutes of dancing I would
seize the opportunity to cry out to them in a merry voice, Mingo!
Mingo! a word meaning breast, which is also used in the same way as
our word courage. After such an exhortation they would gradually set
to work again. And they would begin afresh with such goodwill and
eagerness, that it seemed as if the dance of Machielò had communicated
to them new courage and new vigour.”[397]

From many parts of the world there may be quoted examples of savages
who always raise a chant when compelled to overcome their natural
laziness.[398] In many cases they seem, as in Salvado’s anecdote, to
avail themselves of words and melodies which perhaps were originally
intended only for amusement.[399] But it is also well known that
working men everywhere stimulate themselves by special songs of
exhortation.[400] And when employed in prolonged and monotonous work
they everywhere seem to know that toil may be relieved by song.[401]
The majority of these work poems may perhaps be of no great poetical
or musical merit, but that does not affect their great evolutionistic
importance. Whether Noiré is right or not in his theory that language
has developed from the work cries of primitive men,[402] there is no
doubt that some of the simplest and perhaps earliest specimens of
poetry are to be found among the short ditties sung by labourers during
their work. The stimulus which is provided by such songs is easily
understood without any explanation. But their invigorating power will
be perceived more clearly when we take into account that emotional
susceptibility to musical impressions which has been remarked in so
many primitive tribes.[403] Besides these invigorating effects, every
musical accompaniment will also, by virtue of its rhythmic elements,
regulate the movements of work, and thereby produce a saving of force
deployed.

When the words of the work-songs refer to the action itself, the
effect will be strengthened by verbal suggestion. It is true that many
of the songs which are sung during the manufacture of weapons and
utensils, during boat-building and such-like, are magical in their
intention.[404] But there is no doubt that the ideas of poetical
magic are to a great extent derived from a psychological experience
of the suggestive power of words. Without committing ourselves to any
superstition, we can easily believe that—in Polynesia as well as in
ancient Finland—canoes were better built when the “boat-building” song
was properly recited by the builder. Only we prefer to think that the
magic operated on the workman and not on his material.

The psychological influence of the work dances is still easier to
understand. Preliminary movements, even when undirected, always make
the subsequent action more effective; witness a golfer’s flourish
before driving. As Lagrange has pointed out, their effect will be
to develop that amount of animal heat which is necessary for every
muscular contraction.[405] When, moreover, they are fixed and
differentiated in their form, the influence will of course be all the
greater. By every attempt to execute a special movement, the idea
of such movement is made more and more distinct. And as hereby the
ideomotor force of this representation is increased, the final action
must be executed with greater ease and greater efficacy. The validity
of this law may be easily proved by experimental psychology. Féré has
in his dynamometrical tests observed that the second pressure always
attains a higher figure than the first one. “La première pression a
pour effet de renforcer la représentation mentale du mouvement.”[406]
Without any theoretical knowledge of these psychological facts, the
common man has always been able to avail himself of the beneficial
effects which are to be derived from preliminary imitations of any
difficult movement. Hence the curious pantomimes of experimentation
which we may always observe in the artisan who has to give a finishing
touch to his work, or in the athlete who tries to perform a new and
unaccustomed exercise.

The psychology of movement-perception, as we have described it in the
foregoing, makes it evident that a similar prompting influence may be
exercised by the actions of others.[407] This is an experience which
must have occurred, we should imagine, to every one who has been
coached in golf by a professional. When concentrating his attention
upon each successive movement in the instructor’s model performance,
the beginner in sports and gymnastics receives with his whole body,
so to speak, an impression of the exercise he has to go through. The
representation thus gains in distinctness as well as in motor force,
and the subsequent movement is executed in an almost automatic way.

These familiar facts from the psychology of everyday life will explain
why among the savage tribes we so often meet with the institution of
the præsul. When any labour is to be performed which requires the
co-operation of many hands, such as the harvest or rowing, the præsul
demonstrates in dance or pantomime the sequence of movements which
the others have to go through.[408] By the suggestive influence of
his performance all the individual workers are stimulated in their
exertions. More important, however, than this stimulation is the
co-ordination of labour which is effected by the element of rhythm in
song and dance.

We have in a previous chapter spoken at sufficient length of the
incalculable æsthetic importance of rhythm as a means of producing
emotional community between different individuals. In this connection
we have still to point out that a fixed time-division must in the same
way facilitate common activity. From the historical point of view this
practical aspect is undoubtedly the more important. However fundamental
and primordial the æsthetic function of the perception of rhythm may
seem for the theorist, it is most probable that the development of
this faculty has been chiefly furthered by its utilitarian advantages.
There is no doubt that even the most primitive man may feel the want of
associating his fellow-men in his emotions, and that for this purpose
he may be able to give the expression of them a fixed rhythmical form.
But the power of perceiving this time-division as a rhythm, and of
obeying it closely in song and dance, would, as Dr. Wallaschek has
shown, certainly not have attained so high a degree of development
if this power had not, by facilitating common activity, been of such
immense advantage for the maintenance of species.[409] It goes without
saying that any work which necessitates the co-operation of several
workers must be executed with greater efficiency the more closely the
individuals follow to a common rhythm.

There is no doubt, therefore, that, as Spencer remarks, the
incompetence of the Arab and Nubian boatmen on the Nile is chiefly
a result of their inability to act together. As an Arab dragoman
is reported to have said, a few Europeans would, by virtue only of
their superior powers of co-operation, do in a few minutes what now
occupies hundreds of men.[410] Such an incapacity for concerted action
is, however, quite exceptional among the lower tribes of men. Some
tribes, as _e.g._ the farmer Negroes in West Africa and the Malay and
Polynesian boatmen, are even famous for the wonderful regularity of
their work.[411] This regularity, on the other hand, has been explained
by all travellers as a result of the rhythmical songs by which their
work is accompanied.

It is significant that the most typical specimens of working songs and
dances should be met with in the tribes of Oceania. The insular life,
which even in other respects has been so favourable to the development
of art, has necessitated a most intimate co-operation between
individuals.[412] Hence the development of canoe dances and boating
songs, by help of which the movements of the rowers are adjusted
according to common and fixed rhythms.[413] The same necessity has of
course produced similar results, in a greater or less degree, in every
community where the type of life makes collective action needful. It
has not given rise to any important manifestations of art among the
pastoral tribes, in which individuals can do well enough without help
from each other. In agricultural societies, on the other hand, it has
called forth those sowing and harvest dances or songs which are so
familiar in the folklore of the civilised nations.[414] And, more than
any other of life’s occupations, war has required an active coherence
between the individual members of the tribe. The influence of military
institutions on art is, however, in more than one respect so important
that its treatment must be reserved for a special chapter.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                              ART AND WAR


In the _Principles of Sociology_ Mr. Spencer has devoted some of his
most forcible paragraphs to a treatment of the social influences of
war. By adducing and comparing with each other types of social life
among different tribes, he has been able to show how military customs
everywhere tend to reduce the individual liberty and strengthen the
central power.[415] Many other writers on sociology have perceived
and commented on the truism that the internal coherence of tribes
has been chiefly produced by the need of combination for defensive
purposes.[416] But perhaps sufficient attention has not been paid to
the share which art has had in the development of those peculiarities
which are common to all military nations. And yet as a means of
facilitating tribal unity of action and feeling, music and dance must
be of exceptional sociological importance in warlike communities.[417]

We shall therefore meet with highly developed choral dances in those
nations in whose life war is a customary occurrence. The North
American Indians,[418] as well as the Dahomeyans,[419] are noted for
the soldier-like regularity of their dances. But nowhere among the
lower tribes of mankind is the time-sense so refined as among the
pre-eminently warlike Maori. Notwithstanding the furious movements in
their war dances, the gesticulation of all the participants is always
uniform and regular.[420] According to Cruise the very slightest
motions of their fingers are simultaneous;[421] and, if we are to
believe Mr. Bidwill, even their eyes all move together.[422] Highly
accomplished dancers as are certain other Polynesian tribes[423] less
warlike than the Maori, it will be admitted that such a pitch of more
than Prussian precision would never have been attained if it were not
for its military advantages. To the same cause one is also tempted
to ascribe the regularity of the Kaffir dances,[424] which by their
choral character stand in so marked a contrast to the amusements of the
neighbour tribe, the peaceful Hottentots, among whom every dancer acts
“separately for himself.”[425]

It is evident that a regular co-operation in fighting is effectually
promoted by rhythmical music. And we do in fact find that music,
especially instrumental music, at the lower stages of development is
closely connected with war.[426] It is, however, more natural to assume
that military music, and similarly military poetry and dance, have had
their chief importance not as regulating but as stimulating influences.
There are many tribes which seem quite unable to observe any kind of
military discipline. But even in the undeveloped and unmethodical
warfare of the lowest savages, music, songs, and dances have been used
as means of infusing courage and strength. The psychology of these
military stimuli is of course the same as that of industrial art. But
the general principles appear with far greater clearness when applied
to this peculiar kind of activity.

First of all, the need of stimulation is never so great as when a man
has to risk his life in an open battle. If in work he has to overcome
his natural inertia, laziness, he has here to overcome the still
stronger obstacle of fear. Contrary to the romantic notions of popular
literature, primitive man seems to be timorous rather than brave
when not encouraged by adventitious excitement.[427] This cowardice
can, however, to a great extent be explained by defective military
organisation. Where the mutual support which the well-drilled soldiers
of a regular army render each other is lacking, the need of personal
courage is of course so much the greater. Civilised warfare tries to
avoid the conflict between the instinct of self-preservation and of a
soldier’s duty by the pressure of strict discipline; savage warfare,
which cannot count on the same forces of submission and mental control,
is compelled to minimise this conflict by deadening the consciousness
of peril. Hence the indispensability of some means of producing violent
excitement by which the necessary forgetfulness of danger and death may
be attained.[428]

Apart from the influence of fear, the task of slaughter is one which,
from its very nature, cannot be performed in cold blood. Even where
the element of danger is absent, as when unarmed foes are killed or
tortured, the savage executioners do not generally get to work straight
away. As soon as a beginning has been made, a sort of intoxication
will indeed be produced by mental as well as physical agencies, such
as the sight of blood or the pride of conquest. But this intoxication,
so eagerly desired by savages in civilised as well as in primitive
communities, cannot be produced even in the lowest tribes of man
without a preliminary working up. The passion of cruelty, like that of
love, is, in its higher and more ecstatic forms, too overwhelming in
its mental effects to be attained without an artificial enhancement of
psychical capacity. But whereas the erotic feelings tend with growing
development to become more and more a private matter, cruelty is among
warlike tribes an emotion of national importance. The incitement to
slaughter is therefore apt to become social—that is, common to several
individuals at once. This is one of the reasons why war is of so much
greater importance than love as a motive for tribal art.

There are some tribes in which the soldiers try to acquire courage and
thirst for blood by magical expedients, such as smearing themselves
with some powerful unguent, or eating the raw meat of a newly
slaughtered ox.[429] Sometimes a joint tattooing of the whole corps
with a common pattern is undertaken, most probably for the same magical
purpose.[430] But however effectually such ceremonies may be supposed
to operate, savages do not generally put so much trust in them as to
give up their favourite means of stimulation—music and dancing. In
people who sincerely believe in their own magic any rite will of course
arouse increased confidence and courage. But this suggestive influence
is only indirect in comparison with the immediate psychological effects
of inciting dances.

Popular novels have familiarised us all with the weird war dances
which play such an important part in the warfare of the North American
Indians. In its main features this type of pantomimic incitement is the
same everywhere—among the African and Oceanic tribes as well as among
the savage nations described in classic literature.[431] By imitating
the movements of a real fight, by exulting cries, deafening noise, and
brandishing of weapons, the dancers work themselves up to a pitch of
frenzy which cannot be compared to anything but a transient madness.
Especially among the nations of America war dances often arouse so much
excitement, even when performed during times of perfect peace, that
they become dangerous to friendly and peaceful onlookers.[432] Here
also—just as in the Hungarian “Enlistment”—dancing is used as a means
of enticing men to join the ranks of the war chief who wants recruits
for some war-expedition.[433]

It is evident that the influence of such pantomimes is not restricted
to a generalised stimulation and encouragement. These sham fights,
just as the sportive imitations of work, must facilitate the execution
of those movements which they imitate. And even those who do not join
the dance will profit by watching the evolutions which they themselves
will afterwards be called on to perform in reality. Thus there may
originally have been a very utilitarian reason for the curious warfare
of the Headhunters of Ceram, who always have the Jakalele dance
performed in front of their fighting line. It is pathetic to read that
even in their wars with the Dutchmen a few fantastically dressed
dancers head the advance against the repeating guns of the European
force.[434]

This fact, which is certainly not without its parallels in other savage
tribes, gives the most convincing proof of the indispensability of
pantomimic stimulation to savage warfare. Although less intimately
connected with fighting itself, poetry has had for war an importance
which can scarcely be estimated at a much lower rate. Words, of course,
can never provoke such a direct and almost physiological stimulation as
the imitation of actions. But words, on the other hand, have a greater
effect on the mind. The suggestive power of the war songs is also
attested by the descriptions of travellers among various tribes. In
Australia, for instance, four or five mischievously inclined old women
can soon stir up forty or fifty men to any deed of blood by means of
their chants, which are accompanied by tears and groans, until the men
are worked into a perfect state of frenzy.[435] “The savage blood of
the Ahts always boiled when the war songs were recited, their fingers
worked convulsively on the paddles, and their eyes gleamed ferociously;
altogether they were two hundred murderous-looking villains.”[436]
In Ashanti and in New Zealand—in short, amongst all the most warlike
tribes—the military singers are able to bring themselves and their
audience up to a pitch of frenzy which is almost equal to that produced
by the dances.[437]

In one of the preceding chapters we have already pointed out how
invaluable a support historic art has given to national pride. This
feeling, on the other hand, is never so indispensable as in time of
war. Wherever a tribe has any traditions of its past history, such
traditions are always revived and recited to the soldiers before and
during the battles.[438] And if a people has no glorious ancestors
to boast of, it can none the less gain the necessary confidence by
glorifying its own valour and reviling its enemies. Even tribes like
the Bakairis, for example, are thus able to “sing themselves full of
courage” in boasting and defiant exultation.[439]

According to competent observers, such songs are more particularly
employed when the natives are afraid.[440] The expression of bravery,
even if originally affected, must necessarily awaken some real
feeling of pride or confidence. Contempt, on the other hand, however
laboriously worked up, is the most effectual means of preserving
equanimity under the stress of depressing feelings, admiration, envy,
or fear. Songs and pantomimes, such as, for instance, those with which
the Polynesians invariably begin their battles, must therefore have a
great power of emboldening the warriors.[441] And while such outward
shows of valour enable the performers to reconquer their courage, the
enemy is intimidated by these manifestations of a feeling which is as
yet incipient within themselves. In warfare, where the hostile armies
stand within sight and hearing of each other, this consideration must
of course be of extreme importance.

It seems, indeed, as if natural selection had developed in man an
almost instinctive tendency to overcome fear by simulating the
expressions proper to valour and menace. Just as animals, when
frightened, make themselves bigger and more formidable to their
enemies, whether from fear or anger we know not, so man tries to
awaken fear in the enemy confronting him at the same time, and by the
same means, as he vanquishes his own fear. This appears with especial
clearness in wars between savage races, where both sides often seem
to be as timid as they try to appear formidable and courageous. Their
threats and boastings are terrifying enough, but the real fights are
very bloodless and free from danger. Among the Cammas “the words really
seem to do more damage than the blows.”[442] The gallant game of bluff
is in primitive politics not restricted to diplomatic negotiations;
it plays an important part in the actual fighting. This remains true
even with regard to tribes which are capable of real courage, not only
in stealthy assault, but also in open battle. The Maorian military
pantomimes afford the best example of such a manifestation, which not
only stimulates the warriors to fight and regulates their movements
in the battle, but also, as a European traveller has been compelled
to admit, “strikes terror into the heart of any man.”[443] In this
case the terrible effect is further strengthened by the hideous
grimaces, rolling of the eyes, protruding of the tongue, and so on,
with which the warriors accompany their dance.[444] So important is
this distortion of the countenance considered by the Maoris, that
instruction in the art of grimacing forms a part in their military
education.[445] The most warlike of savage tribes thus does not
despise the naïve expedient which constitutes almost the sole means
of self-defence among peaceful Eskimos.[446] And so highly do the
Maoris appreciate the terrifying effects of the protruded tongue,
that they carve the grimace upon their spears, the “hanis,” evidently
in the belief that such representations will—perhaps by some magic
power—demoralise the enemy.[447]

This pictorial pantomime brings us to the employment of formative arts
in war. To some extent even painting, especially in its decorative
branches, may be considered as a means of exhortation. The various
decorations of the body which are usually adopted for fighting no
doubt raise the courage of their wearers. A festival dress, when
assumed for battle—for example, by the Khonds—must needs bring with
it a light and festive mood.[448] The red colour, so often used in
military dress, tends, on the other hand, to arouse increased vigour
by direct physiological as well as by associative action.[449] Perhaps
also, as some old authors suggest, the use of red may have had a
negative importance by concealing the wounds and the blood, which else
might depress the men and encourage their enemies.[450] Like every
beautiful thing, highly ornamented weapons will afford their owners
an invigorating feeling of pride, which, however,—to judge from the
unheroic character of many tribes whose weapons are most gorgeously
decorated,—does not seem to be of any great military advantage.[451]

Military ensigns, such as banners, standards, and the like, will
naturally, as outward symbols of the tribe, exercise an exciting
influence on the warriors. Even for barbarous nations, with their
undeveloped feelings of patriotism, in the modern sense of the word,
a flag may represent _la patrie en marche_. Well knowing the moral
value of these apparently unimportant things, the Aztecs employed in
their army men whose only task was “to remove from the eyes of the
enemy every object that could heighten their courage and inflame their
pride.”[452]

The importance of field badges is of course increased when, as
generally is the case, they are adorned with some religious or magical
representation. Be it a tutelar saint, a heathen god, or simply a totem
animal, which is depicted, these images will always be relied upon as
a strong support to the army.[453] The marvellous tales of assistance
afforded by idols which have been carried in the front of battle may
of course have some real foundation in the encouraging mental effects
produced upon the warriors.

It thus appears that ornaments, painting, and sculpture have been
of no small influence in enhancing the fighting powers of warlike
nations. Among the lower tribes of man these arts are, however, on the
whole much more appreciated as means of frightening the enemy. As was
mentioned in a preceding chapter, some bodily deformations are, if
we may believe the natives, undertaken solely for this purpose.[454]
Other warlike tribes endeavour to make themselves dreaded by their
enemies by staining their bodies with ghastly colours, blood-red,
azure, or black. Tattooing may, of course, often aim at the same end.
And among the detached ornaments there is an especial class—for which
the German ethnologists have invented the characteristic designation
“Schreckschmuck”—which are only worn in order to make the appearance
more frightful. The war helmets of the Thlinkeets[455] and the curious
tooth masks of the Papuas are the most typical specimens of this
pre-eminently warlike decoration.[456]

The highest development of art as a means of terrifying is, however, to
be found in the decorated shields of the Dyaks. No form of pictorial
threat could be more effectual than the devices which ornament the face
of these ghastly weapons. A grinning mouth, with sharp tusks in either
jaw, is always to be found in the middle of the shield. Above it stand
a pair of staring, circular eyes, usually surrounded by dark and light
concentric rings. Sometimes also there is a highly simplified outline
of the lower parts of the body. The trunk is completely ignored,
and arms and legs are quite swamped in a bewilderment of entangled
lines, which extend over the whole surface of the shield. But in this
ornamentation the warlike motive is repeated over and over again.
Tusks protrude from the scrolls, and big round eyes stare menacingly
out between them. Thus even the decorative “padding” (Einfüllung)
operates as a multiplied expression of defiant menace. As an eloquent
commentary on this text the whole shield is furthermore hung with tufts
of human hair,—trophies of vanquished enemies,—which partly conceal
the brown, red, and black design.[457] The whole composition, which
in a description may seem merely bizarre and brutal, is, however,
executed with a severe symmetry and a wild grace which afford a most
peculiar contrast to the weird motive. By these æsthetic qualities the
ornamentation acquires an art-value which is quite independent of its
supposed military advantages. One can indeed easily understand that the
savage foes of the Dyaks may be paralysed with terror when confronted
in battle with those glaring eyes and menacing jaws. But even the
civilised observer who examines at his ease the shields which stand in
the glass cases of ethnological collections must needs be impressed by
their power. Though they do not frighten us, they are not, as might
be expected, mere examples of ridiculous grimace. They still extort
our admiration for that weird kind of beauty which, in primitive art
as well as in animal warning colorationn, is so often found in close
connection with the feelings of terror.

We have deemed it profitable to dwell at some length on these
remarkable products of savage decorative art. The demon shields of
the Dyaks, in spite of the fact that their motives have evidently
been borrowed from Chinese and Indian art,[458] are eminently
representative of the nation and its social _milieu_. These wild men of
the woods have been able to express in their ornamental composition,
better than would have been possible in any higher form of art, all
the intense feelings of their wild romantic life. The terror and
intoxication of slaughter, as they are experienced in a tribe for
which furtive murder is the holiest of all religious actions, speak
their violent language in the glaring patterns. But at the same time
the elegant design, which is so characteristic a peculiarity of the
shields, as well as of every other specimen of Dyak art, corresponds
to the graceful and elegant personal appearance which, according to
the unanimous verdict of all travellers, distinguishes these fierce
savages.[459] And it seems as if this gracefulness, no less than the
weird emotional content of the pictures, may be derived from the custom
of head-hunting. The continuous insecurity which has given its own
character even to the Dyak architecture[460] has of course not been
without its influence on the physical development of the tribe itself.
Where assault from insidious enemies is always to be expected, and
where the type of fighting is single combat, lightness and suppleness
of movement must be indispensable for the struggle for existence. We
can, therefore, easily understand how these people have acquired that
natural grace which similar utilitarian causes have developed among
all mountainous animals, and among most beasts of prey.[461] Nor is
it difficult to comprehend that this beauty of the human body, once
called into existence by natural selection, must have awakened æsthetic
attention to form and grace, and thus indirectly influenced even the
manifestations of ornamental art.

If it be objected that such sociological explanations of decorative
patterns are too far-fetched, we at once refer to the marvellous Maori
ornaments, in which the temperament of another warlike tribe has found
a most characteristic expression. Like the fantastic convolutions on
the Dyak shields, the flaming scrolls of black and red which extend
over the ceilings and walls of the Maori houses unmistakably attest
their origin from a nation which war has made violent, vigorous, and
intensely energetic.[462] Generally speaking, it may be futile to seek
for any differentiated expressional qualities in such an impersonal
and unemotional art as that of linear ornament. But in face of these
powerful designs even the most neutral observer will be struck with
the strong emotional exaltation which has here found a vent, not in
words, or sounds, or images, but in pure lines and colours. Such mighty
strokes, so full of life and agitation, could never have been drawn by
any peaceful and quiet natives. The velocity and the wild inspiration
of these patterns are only possible in a nation which has experienced
in continuous fights an ever-repeated state of high-strung emotional
excitement.

The more official Maori decorative art, the Moko, as well as the Maori
sculpture, probably because of their close connection with religion,
are too rigid in their traditional character to admit of any strongly
pronounced emotional content. But the influence of warlike exaltation
has instead made itself felt in the poetical productions of the race.
And, as has already been pointed out, but for the military type of life
dancing could not have reached so marvellous a degree of development.
Owing to the more organised character of Maori warfare, military
customs do not, as among the Dyaks, aim chiefly at producing suppleness
and graceful movements in the individual. But one has only to read the
enthusiastic descriptions of the painter Earle in order to realise
the influence which military customs have even here exercised on the
development of plastic beauty.[463]

The Dyaks and Maoris are but two of the most typical among savage
tribes whose artistic productions have grown up under the auspices
of war. For a complete account of art in its connection with war it
would be necessary to dwell on the war songs of the North American
Indians,[464] to give some account of the art-style which is found
in the military despotisms of Western Africa,[465] and to describe
in detail the poetry which has been called into existence by the
continuous tribal feuds of the North African nomadic hordes.[466] In
its broad aspects, however, the æsthetic importance of war will, we
hope, appear with sufficient clearness from the cursory review which
has been given above.

We have seen that war, as the hardest form of the struggle for life,
has needed, more than any other kind of work, the support which
æsthetic stimulation affords to practical activities. And the art which
has developed under its influence has, to a greater degree than is
usual in primitive production, fulfilled the conditions of emotional
community and emotional intensity. Moreover, the requirements of
fighting have called forth æsthetic qualities of power and gracefulness
in the physical type which seem to be reflected even in artistic
creation. Thus the art-production of military tribes has everywhere,
independently of racial and climatic influences, acquired some common
qualities; their decorative arts, as well as their poetry and dramatic
dances, are always characterised by an intense and forcible life, which
is often combined with dignified power and graceful elegance.

All these are, of course, only restricted merits, which correspond to
some striking deficiencies. It is easily understood that art-life in
a military state of society always tends to be circumscribed within
the narrow boundaries of tribal sympathy. It may also be pointed out,
at least as a curious and significant coincidence, that descriptive
and figurative art, in the sense of realistic, faithful rendering of
nature and life, has never attained any high development among the
most military tribes. Such a sympathetic interest in the picturesque
qualities of the human and animal body as that which characterises
the art of the prehistoric European cave-dwellers, the Bushmen, and
the Eskimo, does not seem compatible with the customs of war. In
this connection it is not our business to estimate critically the
comparative importance of these merits and deficiencies: we have only
to point out the undeniable significance which, from an historical
point of view, must be accorded to war as a factor in the development
of art.




                              CHAPTER XX

                             ART AND MAGIC


Sympathetic magic has in recent times become a favourite subject of
scientific study. We may therefore proceed to trace the influence which
this important factor has exercised on the development of art-forms
without going through the labour of presenting and describing the
evidence of its occurrence at the different stages of evolution. It
is sufficient to refer to the copious and detailed researches of
Hartland, Frazer, Béranger-Féraud, and others. What we need is only a
psychological interpretation of all the facts which have been brought
together by these authors.

The instances of sympathetic magic are naturally divided into two
main classes, which, broadly speaking, correspond to the two types of
association. But just as in psychology it is often difficult to decide
whether a given associative process has its origin in a relation of
contiguity or in one of similarity, so it is often an open question
to which group a given superstition is to be assigned. It may even be
possible to deduce both groups from one common and fundamental magical
principle.

However the definitive theoretical explanation may turn out, we have
for the present to uphold a distinction between the two forms. And in
order to start from the facts that are simpler and easier to explain,
we shall first devote our attention to _sympathetic magic based on a
material connection between things_.

The superstitious notions which can be brought together under this
heading are familiar to every one. There is scarcely a single book on
ethnology or folklore which does not present some illustrations of the
belief that by acting upon a part of a given whole we may influence
this whole as well as all its other parts. This universal doctrine of
a solidarity between the things that have entered as parts in the same
material totality has given rise all over the world to beliefs and
practices which, although varying in details, are essentially similar
in general character. We need only refer to the well-known folk-beliefs
as to the necessity of caution in disposing of clippings of hair or
nails, of saliva, or anything else removed from the human body. Such
objects, it is supposed, would give any enemy into whose hands they
might fall the power of injuring through them the person from whom
they had proceeded.[467] Almost equally universal is the belief that
close relatives, as being ingredients in—or perhaps rather partakers
of—the same whole, the family, are bound together in a quite material
solidarity of suffering. From the sociological point of view this group
of superstitions, owing to the social importance of the last-mentioned
totality, is of especial interest; and therefore the curious customs
concerning the relation between a father and his unborn child, between
husband and wife, ancestors and descendants, etc., which no doubt are
all based on the idea of a material connection, have been treated of
with due completeness in sociological literature.[468] Equally valuable
for the psychological interpretation, although less pregnant with
social import, are all the petty tricks of sorcery in connection with
hunting, fishing, agriculture, and so on, which are practised even now
among most European nations.[469] From the array of facts inserted by
Mr. Hartland in his monumental commentary on the _Legend of Perseus_,
we can form an opinion of the wide and deep-going influences which the
belief in magical connection between things materially connected has
exercised in all departments of life. And besides this ethnological
apparatus, Mr. Hartland gives us in this work a most complete and
definite account of the world-view which lies behind all these
superstitious beliefs and practices.

More light, however, is thrown on the philosophy of this superstition
by the researches of M. Rochas d’Aiglun than by any work on scientific
ethnology and folklore. This is not said in order to detract in any
way from the merits of Messrs. Hartland and Frazer. But although
nothing could surpass the erudition of these scholars, they could
not, in point of sympathetic and intelligent representation, stand
on a level with an author who himself believes in the reality of his
facts. For those, therefore, who wish to understand the motives,
conscious or unconscious, by which the adepts of sympathetic magic
justify their practices, nothing could be more instructive than a
perusal of _L’extériorisation de la motricité_ and _L’extériorisation
de la sensibilité_. In these works M. Rochas has not only minutely
summarised the seventeenth century theories and observations of Digby
and Papin:[470] he has also supplemented these old “facts” with his
own experiments on objects that have been saturated with sensibility
and motor power by contact with living bodies. The power of relics,
love philtres, and charms is thus explained in a way which, however
fantastic, is nevertheless undeniably consistent and methodical.[471]
A savage or an uneducated man would indeed be unable to put his case
in the logical form which M. Rochas gives it. But if he understood
scientific terminology, he would doubtless ratify, as a true
interpretation of his own vague conceptions, the theory of sensitive
and motor effluvia which emanate from all living beings, and link them
to all objects to which they may pass. As a _bona fide_ statement
of magic principles in the language of modern psychology and modern
physics, M. Rochas’ works bring the old superstitions home to us with
unsurpassable force. We learn here to appreciate the powerful influence
which may in all times be exercised by the underlying belief in an
invisible magical chain connecting things which appear to be severed.
When we see a man of modern civilisation falling back upon these crude
notions, which appeared for a long time to be quite forgotten, we must
needs be convinced that the world-view of magic, however erroneous,
is, so to speak, a constitutional fallacy of the human mind. In every
department of human ethos, therefore, there is reason to look for the
possible effects of these conceptions.

For the present, however, we have to admit that sympathetic magic in
its simplest form seems to be without any influence on the origin
of works of art. It is very different with the second kind of
magic—namely, that where the occult influence is based upon _a likeness
between things_.

To judge from the literature of ethnology and folklore, this principle
seems to be almost as universal as that of magic by virtue of material
connection. Its influence can be traced in beliefs and practices, not
only of the lowest savages, but also of civilised nations. It has
received elaborate theoretical justification in the old systems of
Greek philosophy, in the theories of Agrippa and Paracelsus, and in
the tenets of modern homœopaths. And there are even some real facts,
such as the beneficial effects of inoculation and the “katharsis”
action of poetry—the curing of sorrow by tragedy—which are sometimes
quoted in support of the thesis that “like affects like.”[472] Apart
from all regard to such spurious arguments the theory of this form of
magic is scarcely less irrational than that underlying the first group
of facts. From our point of view, however, even the crudest forms of
“homœopathic” magic are of far greater interest than the examples of
sorcery by means of material connection. Whereas the adepts of the
latter need only procure a nail, a tuft of hair, or a few articles of
clothing belonging to the man they wish to bewitch, the sorcerer who
works by similarities is compelled to create a representation of things
and beings in order to acquire an influence over them. Thus magical
purposes call forth imitations of nature and life which, although
essentially non-æsthetic in their intention, may nevertheless be of
importance for the historical evolution of art.

To how great an extent works of art derive their material from old
magical practices, the real meaning of which has gradually fallen
into oblivion, may be shown in all the various departments of art.
There is not a single form of imitation which has not been more or
less influenced by this principle. Pantomimic representation, which
for us is of value only in virtue of its intellectual or emotional
expressiveness, was in lower stages of culture used as a magical
expedient. Even a single gesture may, according to primitive notions,
bring about effects corresponding to its import,[473] and a complete
drama is sincerely believed to cause the actual occurrence of the
action which it represents. Students of folklore know that there
is practically no limits to the effects which primitive man claims
to produce by magical imitation. He draws the rain from heaven by
representing in dance and drama the appropriate meteorological
phenomena.[474] He regulates the movements of the sun and encourages
it in the labour of its wanderings by his dramatic sun-rituals;[475]
and he may even influence the change of the seasons by dramas in which
he drives winter away and brings summer in.[476] By those phallic rites
to which we have already referred in the chapter on erotic art, he
tries in the same way to act upon the great biological phenomena of
human life.[477] And again, when sickness is to be cured, he tries to
subdue the demons of disease—to neutralise their action or to entice
them out of the body of the patient—by imitating in pantomime the
symptoms of the particular complaint.[478] Finally, when the assistance
of a divine power is required, the god himself may be conjured to take
his abode in the body of the performer, who imitates what is believed
to be his appearance, movements, and behaviour.[479] Thus the belief in
the effectual power of imitation has all over the world given rise to
common dramatic motives as universal as the belief itself, and uniform
as the chief requirements of mankind.

There are, no doubt, many instances of dramatic ritual the purpose
of which is as yet a matter of discussion. With regard to some of the
symbolic dances representing hunting or fishing or the movements of
game-animals, much may be said in favour of Mr. Farrer’s view that
the object of the pantomime is to make clearer to the deity a prayer
regarding the things imitated.[480] Similarly it is open to doubt
whether the dramatic performances at initiation ceremonies, such as,
for instance, the kangaroo dance described by Collins, are meant
to impart instruction concerning the customs of the animals to the
novitiates, or to confer upon them a magic power over the game.[481]
In the therapeutic practices of primitive tribes we may find still
more puzzling points of controversy. The sucking cure, for instance,
by which the medicine-man pretends to extract from the patient the
cause of his illness in the form of some small object—a pebble, a
tuft of hair, or the like—may be, as Professor Tylor thinks, a mere
“knavish trick.”[482] But it is also possible, we believe, that, at
least originally, it may have been performed as a _bona fide_ magic,
based upon the notion of the efficacy of vehicles and symbolic action.
The method of restoring sick people and sick cattle to health by
pulling them through a narrow opening, for instance, in a tree, which
has been explained by most authors as a case of magical transference
by contact—_i.e._ transference of the disease from the patient and of
the vital power represented by the tree to him[483]—ought, according
to the brilliant hypothesis of Professor Nyrop, to be considered as a
magically symbolic representation of regeneration.[484]

While leaving undecided all these subtle questions, each of which would
require a chapter of its own in order to be definitively treated, we
have only to maintain the great probability which stands on the side of
the dramatic interpretation. However fantastic the belief in a magical
connection between similar things may appear at the outset, a continued
ethnological study must needs convince every one of its incalculable
importance in the life of primitive man. And such a conviction can
only become confirmed by an examination of the influence which this
superstition has exercised on the formative arts.

The belief in picture magic is evinced by its negative as well as by
its positive results. All over the world we meet with the fear of
being depicted. In so far as this superstition has given rise to a
prohibition of painting and sculpture, it has thus seriously arrested
the development of art. But, on the other hand, the same notion has
commonly called forth pictorial representation, the aim of which is to
gain a power over the things and beings represented. Most frequent,
perhaps, of all these specimens of magical art are the volts, _i.e._
those dolls and drawings used for bewitching, which are spoken of as
early as in the ancient Chaldean incantations, which are used by the
majority of savage tribes, and which may incidentally be found even
now among the European nations.[485] But owing to their necessarily
clandestine character these charms have never exercised any important
influence on the pictorial art. More important, from the historical
point of view, than these black and cryptic arts is the white magic
by which social benefits are pursued. Just as the principal forms
of magical drama correspond to the chief requirements of mankind,
so the most important magical sculptures and paintings are found in
connection with agricultural rites,[486] the observances of hunting
and fishing,[487] medical practices,[488] and ceremonies for removing
sterility.[489] And in the same way as dramatic representation, but
with far greater efficacy, pictorial representation has been able
to satisfy the highest material as well as spiritual requirement
by bringing the deity in concrete relation with man through the
sympathetic force of the image. The art of conjuring a spirit to take
its abode in what is believed to be a counterfeit of its corresponding
body has thus given rise to the fashioning of idols and the subsequent
adoring of them. Although essentially the same as in the simple medical
cures and the practices of sorcery, pictorial magic has in these cases
of idol-making exercised a more far-reaching and thorough influence on
mankind than in any of its other manifestations.

We need not dwell at any length on the superstitions connected with
poetic or literary descriptions of things. The universal objection
to the mentioning of proper names is evidently based upon a belief
in the efficacy of words. And, on the other hand, this same belief
lies behind the equally universal use of incantations. Songs that are
sung in order to facilitate the labour of workers and to increase the
result of it, poems that aim at conjuring the favour of a hard-hearted
or indifferent woman, charms for invoking or expelling spirits, and
medical spells,—all these forms of poetic magic are too familiar to be
more than mentioned.

From the point of view of the civilised observer the above-quoted
examples of dramatic, pictorial, and poetic magic may seem to have
an obvious and ready explanation. A work of art always gives to the
spectator, and no doubt also to the creator, an illusion of reality.
As, moreover, primitive man is notoriously unable to distinguish
between subjective and objective reality, it seems natural to assume
that it is the mental illusion created by his work which makes
the magician believe that he has acquired a power over the things
represented by it. And this assumption is all the more tempting because
even to civilised, enlightened man there is something magical in
the momentary satisfaction which art affords to all our unfulfilled
longings by its semblance of reality. Strong desire always creates for
itself an imaginary gratification which easily leads the uncritical
mind to a belief in the power of will over the external world. The
whole of art-creation may thus be looked upon as an embodiment of the
greatest wishes of mankind, which have sought the most convincing
appearance of their fulfilment in the form and shape of objective
works. What is in us a conscious and intentional self-deception, may
be in the unsophisticated man a real illusion. The main psychological
aspects of the activity could not be changed by these different
subjective attitudes on the part of the producer. The essential point
is that in both cases the greatest possible resemblance to the original
would be sought for in order to increase in the one case the magical
efficacy of the work, in the other the pleasure to be derived from the
illusion. The belief in a magical connection between similar things
would thus exercise an incalculable influence on the growth of realism
in art. But, unfortunately, this easy explanation is not corroborated
by an impartial examination of the lower stages of art-development.
The statement of M. Guaita as to the volt, _Plus la ressemblance est
complète plus le maléfice a chance de réussir_,[490] does not appear
to be borne out by the evidence. The only instance we know of in which
greater or less resemblance to the model is thought of as bearing on
the magical efficacy of a painting is that of the East Indian artists.
We are told that it was in order to evade the Mohammedan prohibition of
painting that they resorted to that style of treating nature, bordering
on caricature, which is so characteristic of, say, Javanese art.[491]
Similarly it is by an appeal to their virtue of non-resemblance that
artists among the Laos defend their pictures as being harmless and
innocent.[492] But such references to barbaric or semi-barbaric art
do not tell us much about the conditions prevailing at the beginning
of art-development. The primitive man who avails himself of dolls and
drawings in order to bewitch is generally quite indifferent to the
life-like character of his magical instruments. The typical volt gives
only a crude outline of the human body, and, which is most remarkable,
it does not display any likeness to the man who is to be bewitched.
As a rule the same vagueness can also be noticed in the paintings and
sculptures which serve the aims of medical cure and religious cultus.
With due allowance for the deficient technical ability and the naïve
suggestibility of primitive man, it seems hard to believe that illusion
could have been either intended or effected by the rude works of
pictorial magic. Thus it becomes doubtful whether the belief in the
magical power of painting and sculpture can have been based upon a
confusion between subjective and objective reality.

This doubt can only be increased when we see how little confidence
primitive men themselves put in the mere likeness as such. When M.
Rochas produced his modern imitations of the volt, he was always
anxious to have his wax dolls sufficiently saturated by contact with
the person over whom they were intended to give him power.[493] And
in this he closely followed the methods of the native sorcerers, who
generally tried to increase the efficiency of their magical instruments
by attaching to them such objects as nail-cuttings, locks of hair,
or pieces of cloth belonging to the man to be bewitched.[494] In the
making of idols we can often observe the same principle. The statue
itself is not sacred by virtue of its form; it acquires divine power
only by being put in _material_ connection with the deity. The most
obvious example is that of the West African Negroes, who, when they
wish to transplant the wood deity from his original home to their towns
and villages, build up a wooden doll of branches taken from the tree in
which he lives.[495] The god is certainly supposed to feel a special
temptation to take up his abode in the idol made in his own likeness;
but it is evident that the material link established by the choice of
the wood is thought of as being of no less, perhaps even of greater,
importance than the resemblance. The same close and inseparable
combination of magic by connection and magic by similarity meets us
in the ancestor statues of New Guinea, which contain the skull of the
dead in hollows inside their head.[496] And although the procedure is
more indirect, the underlying thought is nevertheless the same in the
curious practices found, _e.g._, on the island of Nias. The spirit of
the deceased is here conducted to his statue by means of some small
animal which has been found in the neighbourhood of his grave.[497]
In none of these examples—which might be supplemented by analogous
instances from various tribes—do we see any hint of that manner of
regarding statues and paintings which prevails among civilised men.
While with us the mental impression on the spectator constitutes, so
to speak, the object and the essential purport of the work of art, the
magicians and the idolaters seem to look chiefly for material power and
influence in their simulacra.

The way in which pictorial art is used for curative purposes affords
us—if further proofs are wanted—a still more telling example of the
difference between the magical and the aesthetic points of view.
Nothing could be more crude and primitive than the notions held by
the Navajo with regard to the salutary influences of their famous
sand-paintings. The cure is effected, they believe, not by the
patient’s looking at the represented figures, but by his rolling
himself on them, or having the pigments of the mosaic applied to the
corresponding parts of his own body. The more of the sacred sand he
can thus attach to his body, the more complete is his recovery.[498]
Among other tribes at the same stage of development as the Navajos the
prevailing views are almost equally materialistic.[499] And even among
the barbaric and semi-civilised peoples, although we do not meet with
quite as gross superstitions, the fundamental idea of pictorial magic
appears often to be the same. The power of a painting or a sculpture
is thought of as something which is quite independent of its mental
effects upon the spectator. That interpretation of sympathetic magic,
therefore, which to us seemed most natural, cannot possibly be applied
to its lower forms.

As the concepts by which primitive man justifies to himself his beliefs
and practices are naturally vague and hazy, it may seem futile to
attempt to reconstruct his reasoning. Nothing final or definite can
be asserted on so obscure a topic. But we may legitimately discuss
the most consistent and most probable way in which to account for the
various forms of sympathetic magic. And with regard to this question
of probabilities we may rely to some extent upon the illustrative
and suggestive analogies to primitive thought which can be found
in scientific philosophies. For it is evident that a philosophical
doctrine, if it fits in with the facts of primitive superstition,
may be explanatory of those vague and latent notions which, without
logical justification or systematical arrangement, lie in the mind of
the magician and the idolater. Such a doctrine is presented to us in
the familiar emanation-theories, according to which every image of a
thing constitutes a concrete part of that thing itself. According to
the clear and systematic statement of this doctrine given by the old
Epicurean philosophers, shadows, reflections in a mirror, visions,
and even mental representations of distant objects, are all caused by
thin membranes, which continually detach themselves from the surface
of all bodies and move onward in all directions through space.[500] If
there are such things as necessary misconceptions, this is certainly
one. Such general facts of sensuous experience as reflection, shadow,
and mirage will naturally appear as the result of a purely material
decortication—as in a transfer picture.[501] How near at hand this
theory may lie even to the modern mind appears from the curious
fact that such a man as Balzac fell back upon it when attempting to
explain the newly-invented daguerreotype, that most marvellous of all
image-phenomena.[502]

To the primitive mind it is only natural to apply this reasoning even
to artificial images. Whether the likeness of a thing is fashioned
by nature in water or air, or whether it be made by man, it is in
both cases thought of as depriving the thing itself of some part of
its substance. Such a notion, which cannot surprise us when met with
among the lower savages, seems to have been at the bottom of even the
Mohammedan prohibition of the formative arts.[503] It is evident that,
wherever images are explained in this crude manner, magic by similarity
in reality becomes merely a case of magic by contiguity.

The materialistic thought which lies behind the belief in a solidarity
between similar things appears nowhere so clearly as within the
department of pictorial magic. But we believe that its influence can
also be traced in all the other superstitions regarding sympathetic
causation. In spite of that feeling of superiority so common in nations
which have no leaning towards formative arts, poetical and musical
magic in its lower forms is founded on quite as crude a conception as
any idolatry or pictorial sorcery. It would indeed be unnatural if
the theory of corporeal emanations had not been applied to acoustic
as well as to optical phenomena. To the unscientific mind sounds
and reverberations are something quite synonymous with sights and
reflections. The sounds connected with the impression of a being,
thing, or phenomenon will therefore be conceived as being a part of
the being, thing, or phenomenon itself. To these easily-explained
notions there are to be added the peculiar superstitions entertained
with regard to a class of sounds which are only associated with things,
viz. their names. To the primitive man a name literally constitutes
a part of the object it denotes. The magician may therefore get the
mastery over the spirits he invokes and the men he bewitches by merely
mentioning their names.[504] In many cases a most potent spell consists
of unintelligible words, which to the conjurer himself has no meaning
at all. In other cases, although the words really have a sense, we can
easily observe that they are not used for the purpose of creating an
illusion of reality. The typical incantation may indeed in a manner be
called descriptive. The singer is anxious not to pass by any detail,
the omitting of which may be injurious to the potency of his magic. But
the result is only a sort of inventory, which seldom suggests a full
and vivid mental picture. Many of the Shaman prayers and songs show us
by their whole character that in their case at least poetical illusion
has had nothing to do with the belief in the power of words over
things.[505]

Thus, according to the magical-world view, a system of material
connections links together in close solidarity things and their images,
sounds, or names. But this network of connections may even, we believe,
extend further, so as to bring into its chain of causation qualities
and actions, in short, abstract notions, which cannot be considered
as material objects possessing material parts. Just as an image which
presents the figure and shape of a given thing is conceived as a part
of that thing itself, so all things which have distinctive qualities
in common may be thought of as being parts of a common whole. As a
fantastic but still natural product of the primitive mind, there may
thus appear the idea of an invisible connection, which binds together
all things similar and draws them to each other. Vaguely and dimly even
savages may have been able to anticipate in some measure those imposing
thoughts which received an organised and consistent statement in the
doctrine of universal ideas. But to primitive man these “ideas” must
appear as concrete objects and beings, exercising their influence on
phenomena in a quite material manner.

To those who are familiar with that peculiar combination of spiritual
conceptions of the world and material conceptions of the spirit which
makes up the primitive cosmology, this explanation will not appear
far-fetched or strained. But it is to be admitted that in many cases
it may be difficult, or even impossible, to lay one’s finger on the
elements of magic by contiguity which lie at the root of a given
instance of imitative witchcraft. No doubt the mental effects produced
by the imitation on its creator and spectators will in many cases
contribute to the belief in its power. In the more artistic forms of
poetic magic the suggestive power of the words replaces the brute force
of their sound. And in dramatic magic an illusion, whether intended or
unintended, must necessarily affect the performers as well as their
audience. Therefore, however the psychological basis of magic may be
explained, it cannot be denied that in some of its developments magic
has become closely connected with art. The self-deceit by which we
enjoy in art the confusion between real and unreal is indeed, by its
intentional character, distinct from the illusion to which primitive
man is led, more perhaps by his deficient powers of observation than by
any strength of imaginative faculty. But still there exists a kinship,
and that belief in an overlapping of the tangible and intangible life
which is fostered by magic in the lower art affords, as it were, a
premonition of the effects produced by imagination in the higher.




CHAPTER XXI

CONCLUSIONS


There are several aspects of the history of art which have had to
be ignored in the preceding chapters. A student of ethnology, for
instance, will blame us because in our hasty review of primitive art
no mention has been made of the important influence which political
institutions and religious systems have exercised on the development
of art. Nor can there be any question of denying that these factors
ought to be properly treated of in every research which aims at a
_descriptive_ completeness. From the historical point of view indeed
nothing could be more interesting than to pursue throughout the
general history of art that line of investigation which Mr. Posnett
has applied to the study of literature. Not only in the lower stages
of culture, but also among civilised nations, one might show how in
all its forms and branches art has been influenced for good and bad by
the progress of political development. Tribal drama, tribal sculpture,
and tribal poetry might thus be instructively contrasted with the art
of commonwealths and monarchic states. Still wider results might be
attained by tracing those differences in types of art which arise from
differences in the religious systems. But such researches, however
important they might be, would not have much bearing upon the subject
of the present work. Notwithstanding the differentiation of art-forms
that has arisen from the varying political and religious conditions, we
do not meet in these different forms with any principle of art that has
not been treated of already in the preceding chapters. To explain, for
instance, the art which serves as a means of political propitiation,
we need only refer to our investigation of the æsthetic forms of
sexual selection. It is true that songs, dances, and pantomimes will
necessarily change in character when addressed to a chief or king
instead of to a woman. But the purpose—to gain the favour of the
spectator—is still the same in both cases. And from this identity of
purpose there arises a general similarity between all manifestations
of propitiatory art, which, from our point of view, is more important
than the individual differences of these manifestations. As in tribes
where social conditions have favoured the development of sexual
selection erotic art acquires the distinction of attractiveness and
sensuous beauty, so these qualities will also be prominent in the songs
and dances by which people endeavour to conciliate the favour and
benevolence of a mighty ruler. And as on the lower stages of culture
men attribute to their gods their own likings and aversions, the
same qualities will naturally be found to characterise those classes
of art by which worshippers pay their homage to a divine spectator.
And, finally, as a conspicuous outcome of the motive “to attract by
pleasing” we meet with a similar group of dances, songs, and pantomimes
addressed to the spirits of the deceased—those spectators whose favour
or disfavour is of paramount importance to primitive man.

Side by side with this element of propitiation we find in the artistic
manifestations connected with funeral ceremonies examples of almost
all those aspects of art to which attention has been called in the
preceding chapters. The purpose of information is represented by
pictorial, poetic, or dramatic representations in which the doings
of the deceased are displayed before the survivors.[506] The dances
and songs may in many cases be reasonably explained as aiming at a
stimulation of the spirit, which certainly needs an increase of force
in order to surmount all the hardships and the weary wanderings of
its transitional life.[507] In other cases funeral art is evidently
intended to produce upon invisible enemies the same kind of terrifying
effects which have already been spoken of in connection with military
paintings and pantomimes.[508] And, lastly, it is probably in the
endeavour to exert a sympathetic influence upon the combats which the
deceased must undergo before he can attain his peace and rest that the
survivors hold magical sham-fights and tugs of war over his grave.[509]
Thus in this one branch of art we can see how each of the sociological
art-principles is of much wider applicability than has been possible
to trace within the limits of this work. But, on the other hand, the
crucial instance of funeral art shows us how even in such artistic
manifestations as at the outset appear to be quite irreducible we may
by a closer investigation reveal the influence of those general factors
which have been selected for treatment in the preceding chapters. And
therefore, without entering upon a detailed examination of all the
varying forms of art, we feel entitled to hold that the utilitarian
motives of information, propitiation, stimulation, and magical
efficiency afford a sufficiently complete list—from a theoretical point
of view—of the most important non-æsthetic factors that have favoured
the development of art.

       *       *       *       *       *

The attentive reader will probably have remarked that those very
aspects of art with which we have been engaged in the latter part
of this work broadly correspond to some of the most important
interpretations of the art-impulse offered by æsthetic theories. To
give information—that is, to widen our knowledge of nature and life;
to propitiate—that is, to flatter our senses by the display of beauty;
to stimulate—that is, to heighten our vital energy, and thus make life
easier to live and life’s work easier to perform; to work magic—that
is, to produce an illusion of reality capable of leading to a confusion
between the subjective and objective world;—these are all purposes
which have been represented as essential to art. From our summary
investigation of primitive art it has, we hope, appeared how fully
we admit the close connection of these purposes with the historical
development of art. And it might be shown, if our investigation were
pursued into the later stages of development, that art on its highest
plane still bears the same relation to concrete utilities as it does on
the lowest. Art never ceases to inform, never ceases to please, never
ceases to stimulate, never loses something of a magical efficacy. But
while acknowledging the importance of all these purposes, we have,
on the other hand, to maintain the view which was set out in the
psychological chapters of the opening—that it is only by assuming an
independent art-impulse that we can explain the essential character of
art. To make plain the distinction between these two points of view it
is advisable to summarise in brief the arguments of either part of our
investigation.

In the first chapters the writer attempted to show that the art-impulse
in its broadest sense must be taken as an outcome of the natural
tendency of every feeling-state to manifest itself externally, the
effect of such a manifestation being to heighten the pleasure and to
relieve the pain. We found in this fact the primary source of art
as an individual impulse. But art is essentially social; and this
also we explained on psychological grounds. The secondary effect of
the exteriorisation of a feeling-state is to awaken similar feelings
in other human beings who perceive the manifestation; and their
sympathetic feeling acts upon the author of the original manifestation,
heightening in him the feeling-state which gave rise to it.

Now, all works of art have a common element notwithstanding their
diversity. They express, each in their own medium, a mood or moods of
the artist; they arise, that is, out of the impulse to expression,
which is as primitive as feeling itself. Every man seeks automatically
to heighten his feelings of pleasure and to relieve his feelings of
pain. The artist is the man who finds that he can gain such enhancement
or relief, not only by the direct action of giving expression to his
feeling, but also by arousing a kindred feeling in others. Hence
originates in him that desire to transmit his moods to an external
audience which must be regarded as the simplest and most primordial
inducement to artistic production. And also as a further means of
realising the same purpose there arises the endeavour to give the
artistic product—that is to say, the externalised expression of his
mood—a form which may facilitate the revival of the original state in
an ever wider circle of sympathisers. Thus from the reflex outlet for a
strong emotional pressure we are led to a deliberate creation, in which
the intellectual and volitional elements preponderate increasingly over
the automatic, emotional impulse. But from this gain in consciousness
there does not result any change in the essential character of the
artistic activity. However great the difference between the highest
forms of art, such as, for instance, a drama or a sculpture, and the
primitive dance-pantomime, the underlying impulse is still the same in
both cases. Perpetuation—that is, expression which is addressed to a
fictitious audience—can only be explained by reference to the enhancing
and relieving effects which man has experienced as results of emotional
transmission. And all the intentional activities, the artistic
composition, the artistic technique, and so on, by which perpetuation
is secured can thus be regarded as subservient to the emotionalistic
purpose. Moreover, these same activities, however unemotional they
may be in themselves, will enable the artist to extort an increased
emotional value from his “motives”; for instance, the greater a man’s
skill in suggesting the peculiar thrill of colour, the greater will
be his pleasure in colour itself. Technical excellency, which to the
outsider is a cold and neutral thing, may thus to the artist and to
the intelligent critic be full of expressional significance. From
whichever point of view we may look at art, we shall have to interpret
its central and essential characteristics in terms of feeling. In this
way we can account for it as a self-sufficing, or as we have said,
autotelic activity. And in this way only can we explain the strength of
that compelling force which urges an artist to an exertion from which
he derives no external utility.

But it cannot be contended that primitive human nature furnishes not
only the impulse to expression but also the medium. The artist in man
had the feeling; he had to discover a way to exteriorise it. Nearest
perhaps to primitive art lie the immediate manifestations by regulated
gesture and regulated sounds of the voice, which are also in their
highest development the most potent means for transmitting an emotion.
Yet the different utilities of life offered also other means—as it
were, words of a language—in which the feeling could express itself
and transmit itself from mind to mind. The man who used drawing as a
means of communicating thoughts could express in a drawing the terror
which a beast inspired or the delight he had derived from watching its
movements. And just as the purpose of imparting information—whether by
word or image—afforded a natural medium through which the art-impulse
could work to its own ends, so also the purpose of propitiation
afforded in dance or decoration something which might be diverted
from its original object and be used with the single intention of
expressing, for instance, the dancer’s mood. Similarly each of the
other purposes that have been discussed or alluded to afforded, as
it were, a concrete material for art—a shape in which the primitive
impulse to gesture could embody and develop itself. And beyond the
fact that art has been obliged to avail itself of media which have
originally been called into existence by utilitarian, non-æsthetic
needs, there lies another fact. To these external “origins” we can also
trace some of the most important qualities which we appreciate in a
work of art. In this way it is open to us to explain how several of
the virtues of art, as we know it, may be derived from the primitive
needs which it subserved; how, for instance, the lucidity of art may
find its explanation in art’s use for conveying information; how the
sensuous and attractive qualities of all art may be traced to the need
for propitiating favour; how the power that resides in art to brace and
stimulate the mind may be transmitted from the days when the artist was
appointed to nerve his fellows for work or war. And, lastly, it might
be argued that a most characteristic quality of art, the imagination,
which is in a sense faith in the reality of the unreal (whether native
to the human mind or not), may have been immensely heightened by the
use of art for purposes of magic, which fuses the visible and the
invisible.

There is thus suggested a further point. We were able to derive those
qualities of artistic composition, which in all æsthetic systems
have been insisted on as the most primordial, from the distinctive
qualities of the self-sufficing art-impulse, by showing how the
unity, the concentration, and the subordination of parts to a whole
correspond to the unity of a feeling-state which it is the object
of the art-impulse to convey and to perpetuate in its entirety. On
the other hand, we are forced to acknowledge that by the side of
these primordial qualities there exist certain secondary qualities
which have been of great importance in facilitating and securing the
transmission and perpetuation of the original feeling-state; and we
have shown how these qualities arise out of the vassalage by which art
in its historical development has been bound to the necessities and
utilities of practical life. For those who crave a theoretical basis
for the estimation of art there is offered a field of research in the
comparison and relative valuation of these two orders of qualities. By
studying the alternate influences which the primary and the derived
factors have exercised on the character of works of art, it may even be
possible to lay down a kind of scale by which to rank general qualities
as well as individual manifestations. But all this train of thought,
though cognate to our inquiry, is not a part of it. This book has aimed
simply to give an answer to the question, How did art originate? To
those minds which see no value in an æsthetic inquiry that neither
purposes to offer guidance for the artist in producing works of art,
nor for the student in appreciating them, the whole discussion may
probably appear futile. The author on his part has thought that such
investigation into an important and typical human energy must be of
interest at least, if not of value. But upon the practical question it
is his personal opinion that the loss would be greater than the gain
if theories and judgments based upon philosophical considerations were
allowed to influence either the production or the enjoyment of art.




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                           INDEX OF AUTHORS


  Abbott, 287

  Abercromby, 173

  Acosta, 252, 266

  Agrippa, 282

  Ahlqvist, 159, 211

  Allen, 8, 194

  Amiel, 32, 38

  Andree, 176, 280, 294

  Angas, 67, 220, 259, 266, 270

  Archer, 53

  Aristotle, 23

  Aubry, 82


  Bailey, 237

  Bain, 32, 33, 44

  Baker, 236

  Baldwin, 14, 24, 25, 79

  Balfour, 147

  Bancroft, 270, 272

  Barrington, 198

  Bartels, 67

  Bashkirtseff, 61

  Batchelor, 67, 159

  Baumgarten, 1, 2

  Beccari, 195

  Beecham, 265

  Berchon, 233

  Bérenger-Féraud, 278, 283, 284, 286

  Bernays, 60

  Bernier, 67

  Bidwill, 262, 264, 269

  Binet, 81, 197

  Binger, 226, 287

  Blumentritt, 234, 235, 266

  Boccaccio, 68

  Bock, 227, 290

  Böhme, 252

  Bonghi, 283

  Bonwick, 159, 160

  Bosanquet, 2

  Bouillier, 32, 37, 51

  Bourget, 122

  Bourgoing, 89

  Bourke, 67, 169

  Brehm, 84, 189, 199

  Brenner, 234, 235, 259, 291

  Bridges, 165

  Brière, 283

  Brinton, 63, 67, 156, 174, 211, 212, 236, 285

  Broca, 252

  Brown, Baldwin, 111

  Brown, John, 94, 185

  Bücher, 88, 106, 254, 255, 257, 259

  Büchner, 194, 243

  Buckland, 226

  Buffon, 192

  Burchell, 222

  Burke, 77

  Burton, 152, 179, 224, 233, 251, 252, 254, 259, 266


  Cahusac, 94, 266

  Calmeil, 61

  Calvert, 267

  Cameron, 182

  Campanella, 77

  Campbell, 263

  Carlyle, 123

  Carpenter, 134

  Carver, 92, 183, 266

  Casalis, 262, 266, 285, 287

  Castrén, 285

  Catlin, 11

  Chamisso, 159

  Champfleury, 68

  Chappuy, 159

  Charcot and Richer, 109

  Chardin, 254

  Clapperton, 158

  Clavigero, 271

  Clercq, de, 291

  Codrington, 165, 175

  Colden, 266

  Collins, 182, 285

  Combarieu, 108

  Cook, 66, 158, 166, 233, 236, 245, 246, 262, 264, 266, 267, 269

  Cornish, 194

  Crane, 184

  Cranz, 66, 152, 165

  Crawley, 218, 244

  Creuzer, 107

  Cruickshank, 160, 175

  Cruise, 262

  Curr, 67, 152, 159, 226, 235, 246, 279

  Czervinski, 266


  Dale, 182

  Dall, 66

  Dalton, 234, 262, 283, 300

  Darwin, 32, 33, 48, 187, 189, 191, 194, 195, 198, 201, 232, 238

  Davy, 237

  Day, 67, 160

  Delbœuf, 35

  Deschamps, 237

  Dieffenbach, 225, 236, 254, 279

  Digby, 281

  Dobrizhoffer, 180, 226, 268

  Düben, 79

  Dumont, 32, 35

  Dupuis, 267

  Dyer, 111


  Earle, 154, 262, 276

  Ehrenreich, 160

  Elliot, 224

  Ellis, A. B., 220, 224, 226, 233, 279, 291, 295

  Ellis, Havelock, 19, 218

  Ellis, W., 66, 179, 233, 244, 262, 267, 268

  Elworthy, 217

  Emmanuel, 106, 109

  Engel, 24, 95

  Erman, 160, 174

  Espinas, 84, 188, 192, 199

  Eyre, 160, 233, 268


  Faguet, 59

  Farrer, 271, 285

  Fechner, 40

  Féré, 30, 40, 44, 94, 199, 252, 256, 257

  Fewkes, 170

  Figuier, 61

  Finsch, 175, 215, 216, 220, 227, 269, 272

  Fison, 182

  Flaubert, 40

  Forbes, Fr. E., 179, 251, 262

  Forbes, H. O., 180, 235

  Fornander, 161, 178

  Fouillée, 76

  Fraser, 153, 225, 262, 284

  Frazer, 182, 219, 226, 278, 279, 280, 283, 284, 287, 293

  Freycinet, 67

  Fritsch, 216, 237, 248, 262, 263

  Fytche, 226


  Gaidoz, 286

  Gason, 67, 283

  Gautier, 4

  Geddes and Thomson, 189

  Gill, 160, 178, 179, 233, 244, 255

  Godden, 222, 226

  Godfernaux, 44, 94

  Goethe, 105

  Goncourt, 40, 68, 80

  Gooneratne, 291

  Gratiolet, 32

  Grey, 159, 178, 267

  Grimm, 283, 284

  Groos, 20, 26, 27, 59, 75, 78, 108, 146, 156, 172, 197, 199,
    200, 232, 261

  Grosse, 8, 87, 92, 225, 270

  Grove, 254, 284

  Guaita, 289

  Gurney, 230

  Guyau, 8, 13, 19, 28


  Haddon, 147, 184, 225, 287, 300

  Hall, 220

  Hamilton, Aug., 275

  Hamilton, W., 33, 37, 51, 54

  Hanslick, 7

  Hansson, 122

  Harless, 80

  Harnack, 130, 136

  Hartland, 67, 219, 278, 280, 284

  Hecker, 68

  Heckewelder, 266

  Hein, 271, 273, 274

  Hellwald, 197

  Helvetius, 61

  Hemsterhuis, 122

  Hennequin, 8

  Herckenrath, 59

  Heriot, 225, 268

  Hernsheim, 262

  Hickson, 235

  Higgins, 169

  Hill, 111

  Hill and Thornton, 237

  Hirn, 36, 46, 54, 116, 169, 170, 199, 275

  Hirth, 135

  Hoffman, 176

  Hoffmeister, 237

  Hogarth, 76

  Holmes, Edm., 134

  Holmes, William H., 147

  Holub, 237

  Holz, 117

  Home, 76, 155

  Howitt, 182

  Hudson, 26, 198, 231

  Humboldt, 212

  Hyades, 164, 165, 237


  Im Thurn, 158, 176, 226


  Jacobowski, 94

  Jagor, 235

  James, 44, 48, 51-53

  Jefferies, 61

  Joest, 66, 212, 220, 222, 233, 234, 267, 272

  Johnston, 226, 244, 246, 248

  Johnstone, 92, 248, 276

  Jouffroy, 75


  Kane, 167

  Kant, 2, 8, 32

  Keating, 67

  Kidd, 248

  Kierkegaard, 38, 63

  Kingsley, 152, 159, 174, 224, 226

  Kirby, 220

  Kleinpaul, 217

  Kleinschmidt, 165, 262

  Koeler, 225, 233

  Kolbe, 263

  Kollman, 257

  Kotzebue, 159, 279

  Kreemer, 284

  Kubary, 220, 221, 265

  Kussmaul, 151


  Lafitau, 262

  Lagrange, 256

  Laing, 180, 217, 233, 259

  Landa, de, 291

  Lander, 67, 158, 226

  Lang, A., 67, 279, 283

  Lang, G., 237, 266

  Lange, Carl, 44, 54, 62, 97

  Lange, Julius, 105, 134

  Le Bon, 82

  Leconte de Lisle, 137

  Lehmann, 31, 33, 34, 46, 54, 58

  Lenormant, 287

  Lenz, 160, 255

  Lessing, 60

  Lethermann, 166

  Letourneau, 271

  Levertin, 159

  Lewin, 234, 235, 254, 262, 300

  Lichtenberg, 96

  Lichtenstein, 11

  Lindsay, 194

  Lippert, 209, 212, 224

  Lipps, 75, 76

  Lisiansky, 216

  Livingstone, 265

  Lloyd, G. T., 167

  Lloyd, L., 189

  Lobeck, 59, 65

  Logau, 38

  Lombroso, 40

  Lubbock, 166, 174, 220

  Lucretius, 293

  Lukianos, 266

  Lumholtz, 67, 285

  Lütke, 220, 245, 262


  Macpherson, 270

  Magitot, 208

  Mallery, 151, 152, 153, 156, 157, 176, 227

  Man, 67, 222, 224

  Maning, 270

  Mann, 265

  Mantegazza, 32, 50, 229, 267

  March, 10, 134, 147

  Markham, 179, 236, 254

  Marques, 233, 262

  Marryat, 274

  Marsden, 219, 234, 235

  Marshall, H. R., 6, 22, 24, 25, 34, 35-37, 40, 54, 57, 66

  Marshall, W. E., 224

  Martial, 164

  Martin, 92, 235

  Mason, 255

  Mathew, 159, 233

  Mathews, 233, 247

  Matthews, 166, 292, 295

  Maupassant, 94

  Metz, 159, 217

  Meyer, 177

  Michelet, 40, 68, 110

  Mill, 100

  Milton, 282

  Mitchell, 261

  Molière, 64

  Mollien, 160

  Mooney, 172

  Morgan, 11, 236, 266

  Moseley, 216

  Motolinia, 287

  Mouat, 67

  Müller, Fr., 233, 234

  Muller, H., 259

  Mulsant, 196

  Mundy, 262

  Musters, 279


  Nachtigal, 233

  Nagele, 271

  Nevill, 237

  Nietzsche, 103, 113

  Nilsson, 189, 194, 201

  Noiré, 255

  Nyrop, 286


  Oldfield, 158

  Oviedo, 179


  Papin, 281

  Paracelsus, 282, 285

  Parker, 182

  Paulhan, 44, 51

  Péron, 67

  Perraud, 108

  Peschel, 285

  Petherick, 160

  Poe, 122

  Polack, 92, 159, 175, 179, 257, 270, 272

  Posnett, 179, 276, 298

  Poulton, 201

  Powers, 262, 284, 287

  Preller, 65

  Preyer, 80

  Pritchard, 67, 179, 268


  Quilter, 131


  Raffles, 290

  Rafinesque, 156

  Ralston, 283, 284

  Rapp, 112

  Ratzel, 218, 259

  Read, 10

  Reade, 11, 254

  Réclus, 59, 173, 217, 293, 300

  Reeves, 245, 262

  Rengger, 253

  Ribot, 40, 44, 63, 188

  Richardson, 270

  Rienzi, 92, 160, 233, 235, 259

  Ritchie, 12

  Robley, 66, 175, 222, 225

  Rochas, 280, 281, 287, 290, 294

  Rohde, 112

  Romanes, 151, 194

  Romilly, 165, 244, 272, 287

  Roth, Ling, 67, 224

  Roth, W. E., 153, 158, 216, 226, 237, 283

  Ruskin, 6, 107, 181, 134


  St. John, 160

  Salvado, 254, 267

  Sarasin, 224, 237, 244

  Savage, 244

  Sayce, 151, 153

  Scherer, 60

  Schiller, 8, 26

  Schlegel, 87

  Schmeltz, 175, 217, 220

  Schmidkunz, 74, 79, 257

  Schmidt, 237

  Schneider, G. H., 192, 199

  Schneider, W., 66, 160, 217, 222

  Schomburgk, 265

  Schoolcraft, 66, 166, 183, 265, 266, 276

  Schürmann, 233

  Schurtz, 206, 217, 218, 246, 291

  Schweinfurth, 175, 268

  Scott, 238

  Seckendorff, 95

  Selenka, 235, 274, 284, 287

  Seneca, 24

  Shelley, 59

  Shooter, 179, 268

  Shortland, 154, 225, 259, 262

  Sirr, 217

  Sittl, 59

  Skeat, 283, 287, 290, 291

  Smith, Adam, 74, 84

  Smith, E. R., 255

  Smyth, 66, 224, 259, 262

  Soldi, 284

  Somerville, 217

  Souriau, 89, 256

  Sparrman, 233, 263

  Spencer and Gillen, 152, 167, 173, 219, 226, 233, 237, 280

  Spencer, Herbert, 8, 21, 26, 37, 48, 49, 51, 67, 76, 79, 92, 109,
    165, 166, 170, 179, 198, 222, 226, 229, 246, 248, 253, 258, 259,
    261, 263, 267, 268, 279, 287

  Sproat, 267

  Stanley, 77

  Starcke, 226

  Stein, 130, 136

  Steinen, 153, 156, 161, 168, 176, 216, 222, 224, 226, 268

  Stern, 75

  Stevens, 224

  Stevenson, M. C., 283, 284

  Stevenson, T. E., 284

  Stewart, 53, 74, 76, 77, 80, 153

  Stirling, 152, 226, 227

  Stokes, 227

  Stoll, 61, 79, 285, 292

  Stolpe, 10, 223

  Stout, 36, 37, 44

  Strange, 196

  Stricker, 77

  Sturt, 79

  Sully, 54, 57

  Sully-Prudhomme, 95, 99

  Svoboda, A., 217, 300

  Svoboda, W., 177

  Swettenham, 79

  Symons, 122


  Taine, 6, 23, 118, 119, 130, 131, 134

  Taplin, 159, 160, 224, 226, 233, 251

  Tarde, 74, 94, 149, 287

  Taylor, 59, 66, 67, 287

  Tennent, 237

  Tennyson, 64

  Tetens, 220, 262

  Thompson, 76, 91, 97

  Thomson, 254, 262, 268

  Tolstoy, 134

  Turner, 233, 254

  Tylor, 151, 152, 153, 155, 172, 219, 285


  Vancouver, 233

  Van Dyke, 139

  Van Ende, 84, 198

  Varigny, 161

  Vernon Lee, 76, 91, 97

  Vischer, Fr. Th., 6, 23, 118

  Vischer, Robert, 75

  Vodskov, 259


  Wagner, 70, 124

  Waitz, 217

  Walhouse, 291

  Walkley, 59

  Wallace, 12, 26, 189, 190, 191, 192, 198

  Wallaschek, 12, 87, 106, 230, 261, 263

  Ward, 183, 226

  Weddel, 79

  Welcker, 59

  Westermarck, 190, 193, 205, 209, 212, 215, 216, 220, 227

  Weston, 283

  Wilken, 216, 222

  Williams, 165, 262, 283

  Wilson and Felkin, 158

  Winterbottom, 254, 285

  Wissman, 254

  Woldt, 287

  Wood, 152, 265, 268, 269, 270, 271

  Woods, 159, 160, 224, 233, 251, 262, 279, 283

  Wundt, 62, 221

  Wuttke, 222, 223, 224, 226, 271

  Wzn, 291


  Zacher, 284

  Ziegler, 200

  Zoysa, de, 237




                           INDEX OF SUBJECTS


  Acquired pleasure-gettings, 57

  Acting, psychology of, 52, 53

  Activity and feeling, 32-35;
    activity involved in _dolce far niente_, 37

  Æsthetic, its position as a science, 1, 2, 4, 5;
    its development 1-3;
    its methods, 5, 6
    feelings, 141
    judgment, presupposing some degree of intellectual and moral
      development, 188
    of the hen, 187;
    its development in apparent conflict with natural selection, 189

  Agricultural rites, 287

  Anæsthesia and self-woundings, 61-65

  Ancestor worship, 175

  Anger, 47, 48, 54, 62

  Animal display, 186-202

  Animating idols, means of, 291

  Aphasia, 151

  Apolline serenity _versus_ Dionysiac rapture, 105

  Architecture, the, of the Dyaks, 274;
    of the Maoris, 275

  Art, as explained by supernatural causes, 12;
    as excitement and sedative, 70, 71;
    as connected with sexual selection, 203-213;
    its higher and lower forms, 140
    the, of animals, 202
    the reliever, 102-110

  Art-impulse, the, 15, 18-29, 84, 85, 100, 101, 303;
    a racial possession of mankind, 21, 22;
    intellectualistic definitions, 23

  Art-sense, the conditions of its development, 141, 142

  Artistic intuition, 125

  Association between pleasure and activity, 33

  Attract by pleasing, impulse to, 24, 25, 186, 187, 214, 215, 233 _sq._

  “Attractive” qualities of the work of art, 99

  Autotelic activities outside the department of art, 19, 20;
    character of art, 7-15, 88, 304


  “Balls on sockets,” 193

  Bird-shaped amulets, 287

  Boasting adornments, 222

  Boating-songs and dances, 259, 260

  Brilliancy, the physiological effects created by, 194-197


  Choral dances, 261

  Chorus, the, in the ancient drama, 94

  Classification of instances of erotic art, 231-238

  Clothing, the origin of, 204-206, 215-220

  _Cognitio sensitiva_, 2

  Collective feeling, 81, 82
    psychology, 74-85

  Consciousness of self, 62-64

  Contempt, expression of, its importance in primitive tactics, 268, 269

  Couvade, 280

  Coyness of the female, 197, 198

  Creation, artistic, involved in artistic enjoyment, 18, 19

  Criterion of art, the, 7 _sq._

  Crying feasts and ceremonial wailings, 59

  Cure, medical, of restoring people by pulling them through a narrow
    opening, 285, 286


  Dance, 87, 89, 92, 230

  Dances, choral, 262;
    common to both sexes or separate, 230, 231;
    connected with sexual selection, 233-235;
    with war, 266, 267;
    with work, 251, 253, 254

  Dance-pantomimes, obscene, 233, 245

  Dancing girdles, 215

  Deaf-mutes, their language, 151, 155

  Death and resurrection represented in primitive drama, 182-184

  Decoration, bodily, subserving a commemorative purpose, 223;
    used as a means of frightening, 272;
    as a means of individual and tribal identification, 225-227;
    as magical protection, 218, 224;
    denotes civic majority, 220;
    executed in order to protect the skin, 224;
    denoting rank or wealth, 222

  Decorative art, the, of military tribes, 277

  Demon-shields of the Dyaks, 272-274

  Dignity, 116

  Dionysiac state, the, 64, 65, 105, 109, 112, 113

  Dionysos, god of art and music, 110

  Disinterestedness, the, of artistic activity. _See_ Autotelic
    Character of Art

  Drama, the earliest of imitative arts, 149, 150

  Dramatic element, the, of art, 95-98


  “Einhaltsstreben,” 150

  Emanations, magic theory of, 281, 293

  Emotional element, the, in art, 137-139, 303

  Emotions, the psychology of, 42-55;
    connection between emotions and movement-sensations, 44-47

  Enjoyment of pain, 55, 56-71

  Enlistment, dances of, 266

  Ephemeral character of primitive art, 161

  Epic element, the, in art, 98, 99

  Epidemics, mental, 69, 81

  Erotic art, 238-248;
    dearth of information on, 229, 244;
    spurious instances of, 245
    gestures and pantomimes used as expressions of joy, 243, 244
    pantomimes and dances performed with a moral intention, 247, 248
    poems, 235, 236, 246
    propitiation, 234-236

  Etiological myths, 171, 172

  Euhemerism, 168, 169

  Europeans as subjects of primitive art, 160, 166, 167, 178

  Experimentation, plays of, 145

  Expression of feeling, 41, 42, 47-54;
    primary and secondary forms of expression, 42, 47, 52, 68, 69, 199;
    expression as a mythogenic factor, 93, 94

  “Expressive qualities,” the, of nature, 98

  Extempore design, 156, 161


  “Faculté maîtresse,” 118-120, 126

  Fandango, apologue concerning the, 89

  Fascination, 103

  Fear, 52, 54, 103

  Feeling-tone of sensation, 30-42;
    experiments on sensation, feeling and movement, 31;
    dynamic conditions of feeling, 32-35;
    static conditions of feeling, 35;
    association between pleasure and movement, 33;
    pains of restriction, 38;
    pain as motor incitement, 40, 66, 253;
    relative character of pleasure and pain, 56, 57;
    acquired pleasure-gettings, 57;
    the philosophical importance of pain, 63, 64

  Festal development of art, 111

  “Foreign” purposes, the, in art, 10-12, 15-17, 127, 147, 148, 301,
    304-306

  Form and content, 139

  French and English art, difference between, 131

  Funeral ceremonies and art, 300
    dances of obscene character, 217


  Garrick, the contagious power of his acting, 96

  Gesture-language, 151-154

  Gracefulness, 116, 275, 276

  Grief, 50

  Grimacing, its importance for primitive tactics, 270

  “Gymnastic” dances, 92


  “Happiness” of the unconscious, 69, 70

  Higher and lower forms of art, distinction between, 140

  Historical art, 164-182, 223
    and psychological methods, distinction between, 16, 112, 148, 301
    poems used in magical ceremonies, 173

  History born of pride, 181

  Histrionic factor in literature, 96;
    in formative arts, 96, 97

  “Homo sapiens ferus,” 151

  Humiliation, 46, 50

  Hunting and fishing rites, 285, 287


  Idea, the, its place in German-æsthetic systems, 23, 118

  Ideal of beauty, the, and sexual selection, 202, 213, 241, 242

  Idealistic schools of art, 132

  Idols, 174, 288, 291

  “Illusions particulières” _versus_ essential qualities, 128, 129

  Imitation, impulse to, 24;
    connected with the instincts, 75
    sympathetic, 59, 74-85, 96
    _See_ Internal Imitation, Pathologic Imitation

  Impregnation by wind, rain, or sunshine, 219

  Indispensability of accustomed sensations, 58

  _In effigie_ sentences, 287

  Information and art, 149-163, 184, 185

  Instantaneous muscular exertion, power of, 252, 253

  Insular life, its influence on art, 259

  Intellectual elements of the artistic activity;
    their influence on the mental state of the artist, 102-107

  Invention in primitive art, 160, 161


  Jakalele dance in Ceram, 266, 267

  Joy, 48;
    distinguished from the sense of comic, 48, 49;
    pantomimic expression of, 92-94, 244


  “Kina” (Fuegian drama), 165


  Limited amount of energy, 36, 37

  Lustre. _See_ Brilliancy

  Luxury of sentimental sorrow, 51.
    _See also_ Enjoyment of Pain

  Lyre and flute, allegory of, 107


  Maenads, 65, 108-110, 112

  Magic and art, 278-297
    two classes of, 278, 279;
    by connection, 279-282, 291-294;
    by likeness, 282-290;
    expedients for acquiring courage in war, 265;
    power of the obscene, 217;
    pantomimes, 11;
    songs, 288, 295

  Masses, psychology of. _See_ Collective Psychology

  Means of attraction, 203-213

  Medical rites, 284, 287

  Military dances, 265, 266;
    used as salutation, 92, 93;
    performed before female spectators, 229
    dresses and uniforms, 270;
    ensigns, 271;
    signals, 263

  Modesty and clothing, 216-218

  Moko tattooing used as a means of identification, 175, 225

  Moods of sadness deliberately enhanced, 51

  Moral influence of art, 108

  Movement-perception, the dynamogenic influence of, 257

  Music, 87


  Narrative art, its simplest forms, 157-161

  Novelty, predilection for, 208


  “Opisthotonos,” 109

  Ornament, concealed meaning of, 10
    and mimetic transmission of feeling, 98
    and rhythm, 91

  Ornaments, the, of the Dyaks, 272-274;
    of the Maoris, 275, 276


  Pain, pantomimic expression of, 39, 40, 93, 94. _See also_ Feeling-tone

  Pantomimics, erotic, 233-235, 245-248;
    magic, 11, 283, 284;
    military, 265, 266;
    narrative, 152-155;
    representing work, 250-252, 257

  Parnassians, 136, 137

  Pathologic imitation, 79

  Petroglyphs, 175, 176

  Phallic amulets, 217;
    rites, 284, 287

  Phallocrypts, 215, 216

  Pictographs, 149, 155-157, 161

  Pictorial art, the, of the Bushmen, 237;
    prayers, 285

  Play, as connected with art, 29;
    with exercise, 250, 251;
    with the instincts, 27

  Play-impulse, 26-28, 145, 146, 250

  Please, impulse to, 24, 25

  Pleasure. _See_ Feeling-tone

  Political propitiation and art, 299

  Portraiture, commemorative, 174, 175

  Practical motives for clothing and self-decoration, 216, 224

  Præsul, 257

  Preliminary movements, their dynamogenic influence, 256

  Pride, 46, 137, 181, 222, 268

  Proportion, 117


  Rain-making and rain-preventing, 283, 284

  Realism and magic, 289-290

  Realistic movement in literature, 117, 118

  Recognition marks, 190

  Religious doctrines influencing erotic art, 246

  Repugnance for qualities deviating from the tribal type, 209, 210

  Retroaction from sympathisers, craving for, 84

  Rhetoric, primitive, 154

  Rhythm, 87-91, 258-260


  Salutation dances, 92

  Sand paintings, the, of the Navajos, 292

  Scarification, 61, 66, 67

  Scars of the Australians explained by Koeler as means of
    identification, 225

  Science as an end in itself, 19, 20

  Secondary sexual characters, 190-192;
    activities, 191

  Selbstzweck. _See_ Autotelic Character of Art

  Self-exhibiting impulse, 25

  Self-woundings, 61, 66, 67

  Sentimentalism, 136, 137

  Sex-distinction, marks for accentuating, 192, 209

  Sexual ideal, 204, 213, 242

  Social conditions influencing erotic art, 238-242;
    expression, 72-85, esp. 83-85

  Solidarity of suffering between members of the same family, 279

  Songs, ephemeral, 159, 160;
    erotic, 235, 236, 246;
    exhorting to work, 254, 255, 259;
    magic, 255, 256, 288, 295;
    military, 267-269

  Sport as end in itself, 20, 21

  Storage of nutritive supply, 36, 37

  Sucking cure, 285

  Sun-rituals, 284

  Superstitious motives for clothing, 217-219, 224

  Surplus of vigour, 26, 198

  Symmetry, 117

  Sympathetic imitation, 59, 74-85, 154, 155;
    magic. _See_ Magic


  Tangi, 59

  Technical medium, the, of art, 145;
    perfection in art, 135, 139, 303

  Technique, its influence on decorative art, 146, 147

  Theatrical management and _régie_ among the Australians, 237

  Theurgic rites, 284, 288

  Time-sense, its high development among primitive tribes, 262

  Trade-dances, 252

  Traditions, primitive, preserving the memory of European visitors,
    166, 167, 178

  Tragedy, enjoyment of, 59

  Transference of energy, 36, 37

  Travels described in primitive art, 158-160, 178

  Trophies, 221


  Universal ideas, their importance in æsthetic systems, 130;
    their place in primitive philosophy, 296


  Vehicles of emotional transmission, 120-124

  Vital sensation and pain, 60-65

  Volts, 286


  War, its social influence, 261;
    its influence on art, 261-277;
    on plastic beauty, 276;
    on decorative art, 275-277;
    a prominent subject in history and narrative art, 178-180;
    the need of stimulation for, 263

  Werther, 104, 105

  Witches, Bacchantes, and hysteric patients, 109

  Wordless tribes, stories about, 152

  Work, stimulation to, 252-257;
    regulation of, 88, 257-260;
    and art, 12, 88, 249-260


                                THE END


           _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, Helsingfors, 1896. A summary
in German of this book can be read in _Zeitschrift für Psychologie und
Physiologie der Sinnesorgane_, Bd. xvi. pp. 233-235.

[2] Baumgarten, _Aesthetica_, pp. 1, 3, 6 _sq._

[3] Bosanquet, _History of Æsthetic_, pp. 173, 187.

[4] Cf. _e.g._ Hanslick, _Vom musikalisch Schönen_, p. 3.

[5] Kant, _Kritik der Urtheilskraft_, p. 147, to be compared with
Kant’s chapters on beauty.

[6] Schiller, _Über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen_, _passim_.

[7] Spencer, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. pp. 628, 632. Cf. also the
extracts from a letter written by Mr. Spencer to M. Guyau, quoted in
_Les problèmes de l’esthétique contemporaine_, p. 18.

[8] Hennequin, _La critique scientifique_, pp. 26-28.

[9] Grosse, _Die Anfänge der Kunst_, pp. 46, 47.

[10] Grant Allen, _Physiological Æsthetics_, pp. 32, 33.

[11] Cf. Kant, _l.c._ p. 66.

[12] Guyau, _Les problèmes de l’esthétique contemporaine_, livre i.

[13] Cf. Stolpe, _Utvecklingsföreteelser i naturfolkens ornamentik_,
i.-ii. in Ymer, 1890-1891. An English translation by Mrs. H. C. March
is published in _Transactions of the Rochdale Literary and Scientific
Society_, 1891. Read, “On the Origin, etc., of Certain Ornaments of
the S. E. Pacific,” in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxi. Cf. also March,
“Polynesian Ornament, a Mythography,” in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxii.

[14] Catlin, _Illustrations_, etc., i. pp. 127, 128, Mandan buffalo
dance. A similar dance among the Iroquois has been described by Morgan
(_Iroquois_, p. 287), who does not, however, speak of any magical
purpose. Although somewhat differently explained by Catlin, the Sioux
bear dance (_l.c._ i. p. 245) is no doubt as magical in its intention
as the buffalo dance. The same interpretation holds good also, we
believe, with regard to the gorilla dance of the Negroes (Reade,
_Savage Africa_, pp. 195, 196) and the hunting pantomimics of the
Koossa Kaffirs (Lichtenstein, _Travels_, i. p. 269).

[15] Wallace, _Darwinism_, pp. 467, 468.

[16] For a direct opposition to Mr. Wallace’s views on this point
see Wallaschek, _Primitive Music_, pp. 278, 279. Cf. also Ritchie,
_Darwinism and Politics_, pp. 110-114.

[17] Cf. Guyau, _Les problèmes de l’esthétique contemporaine_, pp. 15,
24.

[18] For this characteristic term I am indebted to Professor J. M.
Baldwin.

[19] Cf. chap. ix. in the sequel.

[20] Some brilliant and suggestive remarks on this point may be found
in Guyau, _Les problèmes de l’esthétique contemporaine_, p. 12; and in
Havelock Ellis, _The New Spirit_, pp. 234-236.

[21] Groos, _Die Spiele der Menschen_, pp. 508, 509.

[22] Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, vol. iii. pp. 201-231.

[23] This view, viz. that the æsthetic cravings are a “racial”
possession of mankind, has been clearly and consistently maintained
by Marshall, cf. _Æsthetic Principles_, p. 70; _Pain, Pleasure and
Æsthetics_, pp. 100, 101.

[24] Vischer, _Ästhetik_, vol. i. p. 53; vol. iii. pp. 3-10.

[25] Taine, _Philosophie de l’art_, pp. 57-70.

[26] Engel, _Ideen zu einer Mimik_, i. p. 97.

[27] Cf. as to the significance of this process, and its connection
with the imitative process, Baldwin, _Mental Development_, p. 264.

[28] Marshall, _Æsthetic Principles_, p. 62; cf. _Pain, Pleasure, and
Æsthetics_, p. 104.

[29] Cf. chapters xiv.-xvi. in the sequel.

[30] Cf. Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 104. (“Nor can
we with Kant and Schiller hold that the ‘art-impulse’ is especially
connected with the ‘play-impulse’ through lack of end, if I am right
that an end for art-work is discernible in _attraction through the
pleasing of others_.”)

[31] Baldwin, _Social and Ethical Interpretations_, p. 151; cf. pp.
150, 152.

[32] Schiller, _Über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen_, esp.
Brief 15.

[33] _Ibid._ Brief 27, quoted in Groos, _The Play of Animals_, p. 2.

[34] Spencer, _Principles of Psychology_, vol. ii. pp. 629, 630.

[35] Spencer, “The Origin of Music,” in _Mind_, xv. 452, 453;
reprinted in the last edition of _Essays_, ii. pp. 430, 431; Wallace,
_Darwinism_, pp. 281, 284, 287, 292; Hudson, _The Naturalist in La
Plata_, pp. 280-286.

[36] Wallaschek, “Natural Selection and Music” in _International
Congress of Experimental Psychology_, second session, 1892, p. 74;
_Primitive Music_, pp. 271, 272. These utterances of Wallaschek ought
to be quoted as expressing his views, and not the earlier passage in
Mind, 1891, p. 376, from which Groos concludes that Wallaschek agrees
with Spencer. Cf. Groos, _The Play of Animals_, p. 6. As early as
1891, Wallaschek pointed out the importance of music and dances as
preparations and not only representations of the most important actions
in life. Cf. _l.c._ p. 74.

[37] Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 18-24.

[38] Groos, _l.c._ p. 21.

[39] Groos, _Die Spiele der Menschen_, pp. 216-356.

[40] Guyau, _Les problèmes de l’esthétique contemporaine_, p. 9: “On
pourrait donc, en continuant la pensée de M. Spencer, aller jusqu’à
dire que l’art, cette espèce de jeu raffiné a son origine ou du moins
sa première manifestation dans l’instinct de la lutte, soit contre la
nature, soit contre les hommes.” Cf. also Guyau, _L’art au point de
vue sociologique_, p. 14, where Guyau in a brilliant passage shows
how an element of passionate struggle and conquest enters even in the
most abstract reasoning. To be compared with the chapters of Groos on
_Kampfspiele_.

[41] Féré, _Sensation et mouvement_, pp. 34, 64; cf. _The Pathology of
Emotions_, p. 206.

[42] Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze des menschlichen Gefühlslebens_, pp. 89, 95.

[43] Féré, _Sensation et mouvement_, p. 64.

[44] Gratiolet, _De la physionomie_, pp. 47, 53; Darwin, _The
Expression of the Emotions_, pp. 80, 207; Bain, _The Emotions and the
Will_, pp. 11, 12; Bouillier, _Du plaisir et de la douleur_, pp. 50,
51; Mantegazza, _Physiognomy and Expression_, pp. 114, 115.

[45] Amiel, _Journal_, i. p. 208.

[46] Darwin, _The Expression of the Emotions_, p. 81.

[47] Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze_, pp. 298-301.

[48] Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze_, p. 214.

[49] Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, pp. 222, 223.

[50] Dumont, _Théorie scientifique de la sensibilité_, pp. 67, 68;
Delbœuf, _Éléments de psychophysique_, pp. 182, 191.

[51] Marshall, _l.c._ p. 174.

[52] Cf. Stout, _Manual of Psychology_, pp. 236-239.

[53] Cf. Spencer, _Principles of Psychology_, i. p. 273.

[54] Hamilton, _Lectures_, ii. p. 478; cf. also Bouillier, _Du plaisir
et de la douleur_, pp. 52-62.

[55] Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 213; cf. Dr. Stout’s
keen criticism of this explanation, _Analytic Psychology_, ii. pp. 294,
295.

[56] Féré, _The Pathology of Emotions_, pp. 275, 276; Lombroso, _The
Man of Genius_, pp. 151, 152; Ribot, _The Psychology of the Emotions_,
p. 46 (“Observations on the beneficial effects created on melancholic
patients by physical pain”).

[57] _Goncourt, Journal des_, ii. p. 250.

[58] Cf. Fechner, _Vorschule der Aesthetik_, ii. p. 265; cf. also
Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 187.

[59] Bain, _The Emotions and the Will_, pp. 5, 6; cf. also _The Senses
and the Intellect_, p. 290; Ribot, _The Psychology of the Emotions_,
pp. 97, 112; Féré, _The Pathology of Emotions_, p. 44; Paulhan, _Les
phénomènes affectifs_, p. 37; Godfernaux, _Le sentiment et la pensée_,
p. 66.

[60] Stout, _Manual of Psychology_, p. 296.

[61] A treatment in detail of this point has been given in my
_Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, pp. 57-59.

[62] Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze_, pp. 308, 309.

[63] Spencer, _Essays_, ii. p. 457.

[64] Cf. James, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. p. 466; Darwin, _The
Expression of the Emotions_, p. 76.

[65] Spencer, _l.c._ ii. pp. 456, 457.

[66] For the convenience of treatment we here restrict our attention to
those emotional processes the initial stages of which are accompanied
by changes of activity in the voluntary muscles.

[67] These linguistic facts might have afforded Professor Mantegazza
a further argument in favour of his physiognomical thesis that the
expression of injured self-esteem is similar to that of gustatory pain.
Cf. Mantegazza, _Physiognomy and Expression_, p. 130.

[68] James, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. p. 463: “Sit all day in a
moping posture, sigh, and reply to everything in a dismal voice, and
your melancholy lingers.”

[69] Spencer, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. pp. 590, 591. Cf. also
with regard to the enjoyment which can by reflection be derived from
sorrow, fear, and other pain-emotions, Paulhan, _Les phénomènes
affectifs_, pp. 119, 120; Hamilton, _Lectures_, ii. pp. 481-484;
Bouillier, _Du plaisir et de la douleur_, pp. 62-72.

[70] Spencer, _l.c._ ii. pp. 623-626.

[71] James, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. pp. 462, 463.

[72] James, _l.c._ pp. 444, 445. It is to be remarked, however, that in
the more elaborate statement of his theory, which Professor James has
given in _The Psychological Review_, 1894, he pays due attention to the
influence by which “expression” may change the tone of an emotion. Cf.
especially p. 519 about fear: “when the running has actually commenced,
it gives rise to _exhilaration_ by its effects on breathing and pulse,
etc., in this case, and not to fear.”

[73] The interesting contributions to the psychology of acting, which
have been brought together by Mr. William Archer in his _Masks or
Faces_, do not give us much reliable information as to the part which
the “expressional movements” play in a deliberate stirring up of an
emotion. Even if we were to accept all the testimonies of actors and
actresses as a testable evidence, we could scarcely decide whether the
emotional state of an actor who plays his part in perfect sincerity is
chiefly a result of his losing himself in the fictitious situation, or
whether this state follows as a retroaction exercised by the artificial
performance of weeping, laughing, sobbing, etc. Cf. Archer, _Masks or
Faces_, pp. 133-136. Some interesting remarks on this point can also
be found in Dugald Stewart’s _Elements of the Philosophy of the Human
Mind_, iii. pp. 168, 185.

[74] James, _Principles of Psychology_, ii. p. 444.

[75] Cf. Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze_, pp. 107-111, where the pain-element
of anger is emphasised in opposition to Professor Lange’s description
of this emotion.

[76] A detailed account of the various stages of anger has been
given by me in _Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, pp. 73-77. Cf.
also Lange, _Nydelsernes fysiologi_, pp. 16-19, and Lange, _Ueber
Gemuethsbewegungen_, pp. 28-35.

[77] Cf. Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 246; Sully, _The
Human Mind_, ii. p. 91; Hamilton, _Lectures_, ii. p. 483. It cannot be
denied, however, that terror often becomes intensified as a painful
feeling in proportion as the heart-beatings, the quiverings, and all
the other active manifestations increase.

[78] Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 226; cf. Sully, _The
Human Mind_, ii. p. 34.

[79] Lehmann, _Hauptgesetze_, pp. 195, 196.

[80] Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 175, on the Tangi feasts in New
Zealand; Welcker, _Kleine Schriften_, i. pp. 26-31; Sittl, _Gesch. d.
griech. Literatur_, i. p. 24. For a sympathetic interpretation of such
feasts of sorrow see Réclus, _Les primitifs_, pp. 239, 240. Cf. also
the remarks of Lobeck, _Aglaophamus_, i. pp. 688-690, and Groos, _Die
Spiele der Menschen_, p. 38.

The above adduced instances show us that even the art of primitive
man does not bear out the views recently brought into prominence by
Herckenrath and Faguet (Faguet, _Drame ancien, drame moderne_, pp.
2, 7, 12), and so ably stated by Mr. Walkley (_Frames of Mind_, pp.
1-7), according to which the enjoyment of tragedy as well as that of
comedy can be reduced to a malevolently pleasurable consciousness of
our own security in contrast to the sufferings of others. Comparative
psychology tends far more to support those authors who contend that
in tragedy we enjoy that pleasure which inherently exists in sorrow
itself. Cf. Shelley, _A Defence of Poetry_, p. 35.

[81] Lobeck, _Aglaophamus_, i. p. 688. “De hoc universo genere
dicere licet id quod res habet, hominis naturae quodam instinctu ut
laetandi ita lugendi causas sibi fingere; unde est, quod aliena funera
sequuntur, quod ignotis sepulchris adsident, quod praeteritorum malorum
memoriam refricant.”

[82] Lessing, _Gelehrter Briefwechsel_, pp. 145, 146, quoted in
Bernays’ _Zwei Abhandlungen_, p. 144. Cf. also Scherer, _Poetik_, p.
112. Scherer, who thinks that the phrase “Bewusstsein unserer Realität”
is too abstract in its wording, proposes in its place “Freude an uns
selbst” (delight in ourselves).

[83] Helvetius, _De l’esprit_, discours iii. ch. v.

[84] Jefferies, _The Story of My Heart_, especially p. 128;
Bashkirtseff, _Journal_, ii. pp. 126, 531, 532; cf. also i. pp. 66, 67;
ii. pp. 115, 290.

[85] The purely pathological motives of the self-woundings of Christian
fanatics appear with unmistakable clearness from the instances that
have been collected in medical literature, cf. especially Calmeil, _De
la folie_, ii. pp. 327, 328, 375-380, 384, 404, 405; Figuier, _Hist.
du merveilleux_, i. pp. 372, 373, 376, 379; Stoll, _Suggestion und
Hypnotismus_, pp. 362-365. We need not dwell in this connection upon
the sexually exciting effects which may be created by flagellation.
This point has been sufficiently elucidated by the above-mentioned
authors.

[86] Lange, _Gemüthsbewegungen_, pp. 33, 34.

[87] Wundt, _Philosophische Studien_, vi. pp. 351, 352 (Zur Lehre von
Gemüthsbewegungen).

[88] Brinton, _The Pursuit of Happiness_, p. 18.

[89] Kierkegaard, _Enten Eller_, i. pp. 23, 24.

[90] Ribot, _The Psychology of the Emotions_, p. 376.

[91] On the self-woundings of the Maenads cf. Preller, _Griechische
Mythologie_, i. 2. p. 656; Lobeck, _Aglaophamus_, i. p. 672.

[92] Cf. Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_, p. 259.

[93] For a copious collection of instances see Joest, _Tätowiren_, pp.
34, 35; Schneider, _Die Naturvölker_, i. pp. 111-113; cf. also Smyth,
_Victoria_, i. p. 112 (The Narrinyeri); Cranz, _Historie von Grönland_,
ii. p. 331; Dall, _Alaska_, p. 417 (The Kygani); Schoolcraft,
_Information_, iv. p. 66 (Dacotas); v. p. 168 (Kenistenos); Ellis,
_Polynesian Researches_, i. p. 410 (Tahiti); Cook. (1st) _Voyage_, p.
104 (Tahiti); Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 102 (Maoris).

[94] It cannot be denied, however, that in many cases the self-wounding
is executed as a traditional, superstitious, or sacrificial rite. The
Maori funeral ceremonies, in which the apparently impulsive and exalted
cutting is “done with considerable method and regularity, so as to
make the scars ornamental rather than otherwise,” can thus scarcely
be adduced as a genuine instance of emotional expression. Cf. Robley,
_Moko_, p. 46. Still less are we entitled to speak in this connection
of those Polynesian funeral ceremonies in which the survivors lacerate
themselves and allow the blood to drop on the face of the corpse or
under its bier. Cf. the instances of such superstitious self-woundings
collected in Hartland, _The Legend of Perseus_, ii. pp. 241, 321-325.

[95] On woundings in medical cures, cf. esp. Bartels, _Medicin der
Naturvölker_, pp. 267-271; Curr, _The Australian Race_, ii. pp.
69, 70 (The Dieyerie Tribe, by Gason); Ling Roth, _Tasmania_, pp.
75, 76; Man, _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xii. p. 85 (Andamanese); Mouat,
_Andaman Islands_, p. 307; Bourke, _Rep. Bur. Ethn._, 1887-88, p. 471
(Medicine-men of the Apache. Scarification resorted to in order to
relieve exhaustion); Keating, _Narrative of an Expedition_, i. p. 226,
quotes the interesting conceptions entertained by the Sauks and Foxes
as to the result of lacerations. The wounds are inflicted at funerals,
“not for the purpose of mortification, or to create a pain, which
shall, by dividing their attention, efface the recollection of their
loss, but entirely from a belief that their grief is internal, and that
the only way of dispelling it is to give it a vent through which to
escape.” There seems to be no doubt that similar notions have led to
the curing of bodily pain by bleeding.

As to laceration as a means of overcoming humiliation see Curr, _l.c._
ii. p. 70 (Dieyerie). Even joy, when abnormally strong, seems often
to express itself in this way. Ellis, _Pol. Res._ i. p. 410 (Tahiti);
Pritchard, _Pol. Rem._ p. 138 (Samoa); Péron, _Voyage_, i. p. 227
(Tasmanians, who scratch themselves in the face and tear the hair in
their enthusiasm, when hearing the Marseillaise performed); Bernier,
_L’art du comédien_, p. 310.

As connected with the emotion of joy we may also explain the
occurrences of self-woundings at meetings between friends. Cf. esp.
Lumholtz, _Among Cannibals_, pp. 224, 225. It is not to be overlooked
that in many tribes friends express their delight at meetings by
a ceremonial weeping and wailing. Cf. Man, _Journ. Anthr. Inst._
xii. p. 147; Day, _Proc. As. Soc. Bengal_, 1870, p. 157, both on
the Andamanese; Batchelor, _The Ainu_, p. 105; Taylor, _Te Ika A
Maui_, p. 103; Angas, _Savage Life_, ii. pp. 32, 73, 109, all on New
Zealand; Freycinet, _Voyage_, ii. p. 589 (The Sandwich Islands);
Lander, _Journal_, i. pp. 148, 149 (Yoruba Country); and the instances
quoted in Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, ii. pp. 20, 70, 71.
As this apparently paradoxical expression can be explained in many
cases as a conventional ceremony, which is not accompanied by any
genuine feeling, so the self-wounding may often be a purely ritual
observance. But although some of the above adduced instances can thus
be considered as spurious, we nevertheless feel right in assuming that
an impulsive creation of pain is generally to be derived from the
psychical conditions accompanying high-strung emotion. This is also the
conclusion at which Mr. Brinton and Mr. Andrew Lang have arrived. Cf.
Brinton, _Religion of Primitive Peoples_, p. 213; Lang, _The Making of
Religion_, p. 310.

[96] We need only refer to such periods as the fifteenth century and
the time of the great revolution. As to the abnormally exaggerated
craving for amusement during these unhappy times, cf. especially
the remarks of Michelet, _Histoire de France_, iv. pp. 406, 407;
Champfleury, _Hist. de la caricature sous la république_, pp. 275, 279;
Hecker, _Volkskrankheiten_, pp. 152, 153; _Goncourt, Journal des_, ii.
pp. 180, 181; and the Introduction to Boccaccio’s _Decamerone_.

[97] Smith, _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, pp. 4, 5. Cf. the important
elaboration of this theory in Dugald Stewart, _Philosophy of the Human
Mind_, iii. pp. 171, 174.

[98] Cf. especially the works of Tarde, Schmidkunz, Baldwin.

[99] Cf. Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 72, 76 _sq._ 182.

[100] There can be no question, in this connection, of entering
upon the debate between the adherents of Robert Vischer, Groos, and
others, and the associationists, Lipps and Stern, who wish to put
other notions, such as recognition or “Verschmelzung” instead of
the imitation. Whatever reason Dr. Stern may have to criticise the
_formulation_ of the German æsthetic theories of visual intuition, we
do not see that he has been able to refute them in their _fundamental_
points. Cf. Stern, _Einfühlung und Association_, passim.

[101] Jouffroy, _Cours d’esthétique_, pp. 29, 256, 259, 261.

[102] Vernon Lee and Anstruther Thompson, “Beauty and Ugliness,” in the
_Contemporary Review_, vol. xxii. 1897; cf. especially pp. 357, 544,
548, 550, 554.

[103] Home, _Elements of Criticism_, i. pp. 178-181.

[104] Cf. Hogarth, _Analysis of Beauty_, pp. 26-28.

[105] Dugald Stewart, _Philosophical Essays_, pp. 402-404, 408 (“On the
Sublime”).

[106] Spencer, _Essays_, ii. p. 386 (“Gracefulness”).

[107] Cf. Vernon Lee and Anstruther Thompson, _l.c._ pp. 550, 686, 687;
cf. also Fouillée, _Psychologie des idées-forces_, ii. pp. 59-64.

[108] Prof. Lipps, who does not believe in an “internal imitation,”
says that the anthropomorphic interpretation of outward reality “rückt
uns die Dinge näher, macht sie uns vertrauter und damit zugleich
vermeintlich verständlicher” (“brings the things nearer to us, makes
them more familiar, and thereby produces an illusion that they are more
comprehensible”). According to the view which we have adopted above,
the gain in comprehensibility is real, and not only illusory. Cf.
Lipps, _Raumaesthetik_, p. 6.

[109] Cf. with regard to the above argument the chapter on
movement-perception in Stricker’s _Die Bewegungsvorstellungen_,
especially pp. 20, 21. Cf. also the remarks in Dugald Stewart,
_Philosophy of the Human Mind_, iii. pp. 10, 11, 157.

[110] Cf. the often-quoted story of Campanella’s device to divine
the thoughts of people by imitating their behaviour, as told, for
example, in Burke’s _The Sublime and the Beautiful_, pp. 98, 99. Mr.
Stanley quotes one of Poe’s tales, in which the same trick is used by a
detective (_Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling_, p. 364).

[111] Cf. Groos, _Die Spiele der Menschen_, p. 430.

[112] An almost simian tendency to imitation has been noticed among
several primitive races, such as the Australians (Spencer, _Descr.
Soc._ Div. i. No. 3, p. 5, quoting Sturt) and the Fuegians (Spencer,
_ibid._ quoting Weddel).

As is well known, imitation is in tribes of a hysterical disposition,
such as the Malays and the Lapps, apt to become an endemic disease. Cf.
with regard to the Malays, Swettenham, _Malay Sketches_, pp. 70-82;
Stoll, _Suggestion und Hypnotismus_, p. 74; with regard to the Lapps,
Düben, _Lappland_, p. 192; Schmidkunz, _Psychologie der Suggestion_, p.
199. Instances of contagious mental diseases and pathological imitation
among civilised nations are too familiar to be enumerated.

[113] Cf. Baldwin, _Mental Development_, p. 403.

[114] Preyer, _Die Seele des Kindes_, p. 228; cf. Harless, _Lehrb. d.
plast. Anatomie_, p. 125, and Dugald Stewart, _Philosophy of the Human
Mind_, iii. pp. 6, 7, 193, 194.

[115] _Goncourt, Journal des_, i. p. 281:—Hier j’étais à un bout de la
grande table du château. Edmond à l’autre bout causait avec Thérèse. Je
n’entendais rien, mais quand il souriait, je souriais involontairement
et dans la même pose de tête.... Jamais âme pareille n’a été mise en
deux corps.

[116] Cf. especially Binet, _Le fétichisme dans l’amour_, p. 248.

[117] For a treatment of the interindividual transmission of feeling,
in which the chief points of modern theories on mob-mind are
anticipated, see Dugald Stewart, _Philosophy of the Human Mind_, iii.
pp. 208-211.

[118] Féré, _The Pathology of Emotions_, p. 212.

[119] _Lancet_, 1886, i. pp. 312, 313, quoted in Aubry, _La contagion
du meurtre_, pp. 220-223; Le Bon, _Psychologie des foules_, p. 46.

[120] We need scarcely remark, in this connection, that every unhappy
experience awakens the craving for assistance and consolation, and
therefore indirectly gives rise to an effort to create sympathy.
This point must, however, be passed over when treating of impulsive,
purely emotional manifestations. As to the pleasures and consolations
of mutual sympathy, compare, moreover, Smith, _Theory of Moral
Sentiments_, pp. 10-13, especially p. 12.

[121] Espinas, _Des sociétiés animales_, p. 328.

[122] Brehm, _Thierleben_, i. pp. 204, 205, 208.

[123] Van Ende, _Hist. nat. de la croyance_, I. L’animal, p. 218;
Brehm, _l.c._ p. 87.

[124] Wallaschek, _Primitive Music_, pp. 230, 231; Grosse, _Die Anfänge
der Kunst_, p. 219. Cf. also Schlegel, A. W., _Sämmtl. Werke_, vii.
pp. 149, 150 (_Briefe über Poesie, Silbenmasz und Sprache_), where a
similar theory is advanced.

[125] Bücher, _Arbeit und Rhythmus_, passim.

[126] Bücher, _l.c. passim_. Compare, however, p. 306 as to the
difference between labour in the modern sense and the working activity
of primitive man.

[127] Cf. Souriau, _L’esthétique du mouvement_, p. 70.

[128] Bourgoing, _Modern State of Spain_, ii. pp. 299, 300.

[129] Vernon Lee and Anstrather Thompson, “Beauty and Ugliness,” in the
_Contemporary Review_, vol. lxxii. 1897, p. 559: “To this quality of
mere complexity of surface, pattern adds by its regularity the power
of compelling the eye and breath to move at an even and unbroken pace.
Even the simplest, therefore, of the patterns ever used have a power
akin to that of march music, for they compel our organism to a regular
rhythmical mode of being.”

[130] The expression “gymnastic,” as distinguished from pantomimic
dance, is borrowed from Grosse, _Die Anfänge der Kunst_.

[131] That the dances of salutation and homage in most cases really are
to be derived from the expression of joy has been shown by Spencer,
_Principles of Sociology_, iii. p. 201, and might be corroborated by
instances referring to all the details of complimentary ceremonialism.

[132] Carver, _Travels_, pp. 180-182 (Lake Pepin); Martin, _Molukken_,
p. 57 (Lectimor); Polack, _The New Zealanders_, i. p. 88 (Maoris). Cf.
also Rienzi, _Océanie_, iii. p. 170, on the frequent quarrels between
Europeans and Maoris that have arisen from a misunderstanding of these
kinds of salutation. Johnstone, _Maoria_, p. 49: “The war dance was
practised both as a martial exercise and as an amusement, and was
considered equally adapted to give honourable reception to friendly
visitors or to intimidate an enemy on the field of battle.”

[133] Cf. the instances collected by Féré, _Pathology of Emotions_, pp.
360-390; and Godfernaux, _Le sentiment et la pensée_, pp. 65 _sq._ A
powerful description of the mythogenic justifications by which anxiety
creates to itself a reason is given in Maupassant’s poem “Terreur” in
_Des Vers_, pp. 19, 20.

[134] Cf. on the infectious influence of dramatic performances,
Cahusac, _La danse_, i. pp. 166, 167; ii. pp. 61, 62; Jacobowski,
_Anfänge der Poesie_, pp. 127-129; Tarde, “Foules et sectes,” in _Revue
des deux Mondes_, vol. cxx. (1893), especially p. 368. It is scarcely
necessary to point out to how great an extent the emotional conveyance
by means of dramatic action must have been strengthened by the chorus,
which, by its laughter or wailing, affords a kind of model expression
to the spectator. Possibly, indeed, the Greek chorus developed from
a ceremonial in which chorus and audience were not distinct but
identical—a ritual of wailings or rejoicings provoked by the recital of
a traditional story. This view, curiously in advance of his times, is
suggested by Brown, an eighteenth century philosopher (_History of the
Rise of Poetry_, pp. 126-128): “How came it to pass that in the more
barbarous periods the number [of the chorus] should be so much greater?
Manifestly because that rude age bordered on the savage times, when
the _whole audience_ had _sympathised_ with the _narrative actor_, and
became as one general choir.”

[135] Engel, _Ideen zu einer Mimic_, i. pp. 86-88; cf. also
Seckendorff, _Vorlesungen über Declamation und Mimik_, ii. p. 5;
Sully-Prudhomme, _L’expression dans les-beaux arts_, pp. 96, 97.

[136] Lichtenberg, _Briefe aus England, Vermischte Schriften_, iii. p.
262.

[137] Lange, _Nydelsernes fysiologi_, pp. 168, 169. As to the
importance of imitative reaction for our enjoyment of sculpture, cf.
Vernon Lee and Anstruther Thompson, _The Contemporary Review_, vol.
lxxii., pp. 677-679.

[138] Sully-Prudhomme, _L’expression dans les beaux-arts_, pp. 4, 5.

[139] Nietzsche, _Die Geburt der Tragödie_, p. 8.

[140] Goethe, _Dichtung und Wahrheit_, iii. p. 132. This instance has
been adduced by Professor Julius Lange in support of his emotionalistic
art-theory; _Om Kunstvœrdi_, pp. 72-84.

[141] Wallaschek, _Mind_, N.S. iv. p. 34, “On the Difference of Time
and Rhythm in Music;” Bücher, _Arbeit und Rhythmus_, p. 306.

[142] Cf. Emmanuel, _La danse grecque antique_, p. 127.

[143] Cf. Creuzer, _Symbolik und Mythologie_, iii. p. 155; Ruskin
avails himself of the same allegory in _The Queen of the Air_, pp.
66-70.

[144] _Revue Critique_, 1896, ii. pp. 386, 387; cf. also Groos, _Die
Spiele der Menschen_, pp. 110, 476.

[145] Spencer, _Essays_, ii. 460.

[146] Cf. Charcot and Richer, _Les démoniaques dans l’art_, p. 37;
Emmanuel, _La danse grecque antique_, pp. 102, 196-198, 302, 303.

[147] Michelet, _La Sorcière_, p. 80.

[148] Cf. for example, Dyer, _Gods in Greece_, pp. 114-117.

[149] Cf. Brown, _The Fine Arts_, pp. 22-35, 41-70; and Hill in _Pop.
Sc. Monthly_, vol. xlii. pp. 734-749.

[150] Rapp, _Rheinisches Museum_, xxvii. p. 2 (“Die Mänade im
griechischen Cultus”).

[151] Rohde, _Psyche_, pp. 331, 343.

[152] Nietzsche, _Die Geburt der Tragödie_, pp. 6, 7.

[153] A detailed treatment of gracefulness in art and life has been
given by the author in _Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, pp. 132-147.

[154] Cf. Holz, _Die Kunst_, p. 117. It is only fair to add that in
their own novels the authors of this school have involuntarily failed
to support their theoretical principles.

[155] Cf. chap. i.

[156] Cf. Taine, _Philosophie de l’art_, pp. 72, 73.

[157] _Ibid._ pp. 52, 53.

[158] Hemsterhuis, _Œuvres_, i. pp. 14-18, 24, 66 (Lettre sur la
sculpture, Lettre sur les désirs). A similar thought was applied by Poe
to the fundamental principles in poetic composition and has exercised a
great influence on recent literary movements. Cf. Poe, _Works_, vi. pp.
3-6 (The poetic principle). For a further elaboration of this notion
cf. Bourget, _Études et portraits_, i. pp. 225, 226; Hansson, _Kåserier
i mystik_, pp. 140, 141; Symons, _The Symbolist Movement_, p. 137
(Stéphane Mallarmé).

[159] Carlyle, _Sartor Resartus_, p. 180.

[160] Wagner, _Ges. Schriften_, iv. p. 39 (Oper und Drama).

[161] Cf. chap. ii. in the preceding.

[162] Cf. the quotations adduced by Harnack, _Die klassische Ästhetik_,
pp. 124, 143, 161, 164, 165. Cf. also von Stein, _Goethe und Schiller,
Ästhetik der deutschen Klassiker_, pp. 25, 27.

[163] Taine, _De l’idéal dans l’art_, pp. 19, 50, 130, 175.

[164] For an interesting comparison between French and English ideals
of art, compare the aphorisms of Mr. Quilter in _Sententiæ Artis_, pp.
7, 121, with the views of Taine, as expressed, for example, in _L’idéal
dans l’art_, p. 148.

[165] Cf. Ruskin, _Modern Painters_, 1, i. ii. § 8; iii. iv. 3, §§ 21,
24, 28.

[166] Tolstoy, _What is Art?_ Julius Lange, _Om Kunstværdi_. Cf.
also the remarks in Carpenter, _Angels’ Wings_, the poetic theory of
Holmes, as set forth in _What is Poetry?_ and the definition of March,
“Evolution and Psychology in Art,” _Mind_, N.S. v. p. 442.

[167] Taine, _Philosophie de l’art_, p. 50. For a just appreciation of
the part of feeling in art see also _De l’idéal dans l’art_, p. 152;
Ruskin, _The Laws of Fésole_, chap. i. pp. 1-7; _Modern Painters_, iii.
iv. i. §§ 13, 14; _Lectures on Art_, pp. 80, 81.

[168] Hirth, _Aufgaben der Kunstphysiologie_, pp. 14-16.

[169] Cf. von Stein, _Goethe und Schiller, Ästhetik der deutschen
Klassiker_, p. 32.

[170] Cf. the quotations from Schiller’s letters to Goethe, adduced by
Harnack in _Die klassische Ästhetik der Deutschen_, pp. 89-92.

[171] Leconte de Lisle, _Poèmes barbares_, p. 221.

[172] Van Dyke, _Principles of Art_, p. 281.

[173] Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 327, 328.

[174] Cf. especially March, “Evolution and Psychology in Art,” in
_Mind_, N.S. v. (1896); Balfour, _The Evolution of Decorative Art_;
Haddon, _Evolution in Art_, and the papers of Holmes in _Rep. Bur.
Ethn._ iii. iv. vi., and in _The American Anthropologist_, iii.

[175] For a recent defence of this theory see Tarde, _La logique
sociale_, pp. 445, 446.

[176] Cf. chap. vi. in the preceding.

[177] Cf. Mallery in _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ i. pp. 283, 284, 347; Sayce,
_Introd. to the Science of Language_, i. pp. 92-94, 105-107; ii. pp.
306-308. It is to be remarked that in maintaining the priority of
pantomimic language Mr. Mallery always emphasises the “instinctive”
character of this means of communication. Cp. _Rep. Bur._ i. pp. 340,
347. Professor Sayce seems to conceive gesture-language as consisting
only of dramatically imitating “moves” or sounds, (_l.c._ i. p. 107).
Professor Tylor, on the other hand, who takes up a critical position
with regard to the theory of gesture-language as an intermediate stage
of evolution, speaks of gesture-language as made up by delineations and
indications (_Early Hist. of Mankind_, pp. 15, 16). In a theoretical
discussion it is evidently necessary to maintain a strict distinction
between these different kinds of pantomimic thought-conveyance, which
are no doubt accompanied by different degrees of intention. Cp.
Romanes, _Mental Evol. in Man_, pp. 86, 103.

[178] Cf. Kussmaul in Ziemssen’s _Cyclopædia_, p. 14, esp. p. 587
(Disturbances of Speech.)

[179] Cf. Romanes, _l.c._ pp. 113, 148, 149, on the influence exercised
by the constructions of spoken language on the gesture-language of
deaf-mutes.

[180] Cf. Tylor, _l.c._ pp. 74-79, on the improbability of the stories
about tribes who cannot make themselves understood by each other
without the help of gestures. Dr. Tylor’s criticism of Captain Burton’s
statement that the Aropahos “can hardly converse with one another in
the dark” has been amply confirmed by the subsequent researches of
Mallery. Cf. _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ i. pp. 314, 315. Naturally, therefore,
one feels inclined to adopt a sceptical attitude with regard to Miss
Kingsley’s assertion that the language of the Bubis “depends so much
on gesture that they cannot talk in it to each other in the dark”
(_Travels in West Africa_, p. 439). Cf., however, with regard to the
element of gesture in West African languages, Kingsley, _West African
Studies_, p. 237.

[181] Wood, _Nat. Hist. of Man_, i. p. 266 (Bushmen); Cranz, _Historie
von Grönland_, i. p. 279. As to the Australians the statements are
somewhat contradictory. Mr. Curr (_The Australian Race_, i. p. 93)
says that “some tribes express a few things by signs made with their
hands; but, on the whole, the Australian is very little given to
gesticulation.” This statement, however, has been expressly encountered
by Mr. Stirling, who describes a very extensive system of signs. _Rep.
Horn Exped._ iv. Anthropology, pp. 111-125. Cf. also Spencer and
Gillen, _Native Tribes_, p. 500.

[182] Stirling, _l.c._ p. 112.

[183] Roth, W. E., _N.W.C. Queensland Aborigines_, pp. 71 _sq._

[184] Fraser, _Aborigines of New South Wales_, p. 25.

[185] Roth, W. E., _N.W.C. Queensland_, p. 71. Cf. a remark in the same
direction by Mallery, _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ i. p. 312.

[186] See Tylor, _Primitive Culture_, i. p. 187; Mallery, _l.c._ pp.
295, 307; Sayce, _Introd. Science of Lang._ i. p. 93. Compare also the
classic instance of Sicily, meeting-ground of so many peoples.

[187] Fraser, _Aborigines of New South Wales_, p. 25; Roth, _l.c._ p.
71.

[188] Steinen, _Unter den Naturvölkern Central-Brasiliens_, p. 72;
Mallery, _l.c._ p. 307.

[189] Mallery, _l.c._ pp. 311, 312. That the gesture-language of the
North American Indians is to be explained as a result of peculiar
geographical conditions was remarked already by Dugald Stewart,
_Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind_, iii. pp. 19-22.

[190] Cf. the interesting descriptions of Maori political meetings
in Earle, _New Zealand_, p. 91; Shortland, _Traditions of the New
Zealanders_, p. 171.

[191] Home, _Elements of Criticism_, i. p. 435.

[192] For an appreciation of pantomimic action as means of conveying
religious feelings see Mr. Tylor’s description of the service in the
deaf-dumb institution of Berlin, _Early History of Mankind_, p. 33.

[193] Mallery in _Rep. Bur. Ethnol._ i. p. 370.

[194] Von den Steinen, _Unter den Naturvölkern Central-Brasiliens_, p.
244.

[195] Mallery in _Rep. Bur. Ethnol._ i. p. 370. Cf. also Mallery,
_l.c._ x. (1888-89), (Picture-writing of the N.A. Indians). That the
pictographic elements to a large extent have been influenced by the
manual signs was remarked already in 1836 by Rafinesque. Cf. Brinton,
_The Lenape_, p. 152, where the merits and the priority of this
peculiar author are vindicated.

[196] Groos, _Die Spiele der Menschen_, p. 406.

[197] For examples of pictorial art subservient to such purely
practical purposes see Mallery, _l.c._ x. pp. 329-375.

[198] Im Thurn, _Primitive Games_, pp. 273, 275.

[199] Roth, _N.W.C. Queensland Aborigines_, pp. 117, 118. Oldfield
(“The Aborigines of Australia,” in _Trans. Ethnol. Soc._ N.S. iii. p.
257) describes a Watchandie pantomime, imitating the proceedings of the
white man in hunting whales, and composed by an old native who had some
time before visited the coast.

[200] Wilson and Felkin, _Uganda_, ii. p. 45. For imitations of the
white man in dramatic dances see also Lander, _Clapperton’s Last
Expedition_, i. pp. 120, 121; Cook, _Voyage Towards the South Pole_ (2
Voy.), i. p. 368.

[201] Cook, _Voyage Towards the South Pole_ (2 Voy.), i. p. 356
(Huaheine).

[202] Levertin, _Fars och farsörer_, p. 78, especially the quotation
from Chappuy’s “L’avare cornu” (1580).

[203] For songs describing the incidents in a travel see Batchelor,
_The Ainu_, pp. 123, 124; Chamisso, in Kotzebue’s _Reisen_, iii.
p. 67 (Radack); Woods, _Native Tribes_, pp. 38, 39 (Taplin, “The
Narrinyeri”); Grey, _Journals_, ii. p. 253; Polack, _New Zealanders_,
ii. pp. 167, 168. On current events as subjects of primitive poetry
cf. Bonwick, _Tasmanians_, p. 29; Kingsley, _Travels_, p. 66, (Bubis);
Curr, _Australian Race_, iii. p. 169 (Mathew, _Mary River Natives_);
Metz, _Neilgherry Hills_, p. 30 (Todas); Ahlqvist, _Acta Soc. Scient.
Fenn._ xiv. (“Wogulen und Ostjaken”); Day, _Proceedings of the
As. Soc._ 1870, p. 157 (Observ. on the Andamanese); Ehrenreich in
_Zeitschrift für Ethnologie_, xix. p. 32 (Botokudos); Erman, _Travels
in Siberia_, ii. pp. 42, 43 (Ostyak songs and pantomimes).

[204] Cf. Bonwick, _Daily Life and Origin of the Tasmanians_, p. 29;
Lenz, _Skizzen aus West Afrika_, pp. 110, 111 (Abongos); Schneider,
_Die Naturvölker_, ii. p. 235, 236 (Interior Africa).

[205] Cf. Eyre, _Expeditions into Central Australia_, ii. p. 240;
Cruickshank, _Eighteen Years on the Gold Coast_, ii. p. 266.

[206] St. John, _Far East_, i. p. 114 (Kayans of Baram); Petherick,
_Egypt_, p. 130 (Hassanyeh Arabs); Mollien, _Travels_, p. 74 (Joloffs).

[207] Woods, _l.c._ pp. 38, 39 (Taplin, “The Narrinyeri”). Cf. the
solos in the Atiu canoe-song, describing the guns of Captain Cook.
Gill, _From Darkness to Light_, p. 263. On the song of the Marshall
Islanders describing the ships of the Russian expedition, the dresses
of the sailors, etc., see Rienzi, _Océanie_, ii. p. 196.

[208] Varigny, _Quatorze ans aux Iles Sandwich_, pp. 18-23,
particularly p. 19. A short reference to the same song can be found in
Fornander, _The Polynesian Race_, ii. p. 171.

[209] Steinen, _Unter den Naturvölkern_, pp. 244 _sq._, 248, 249.

[210] Hyades, in _Mission scientifique du Cap Horn_, vii. p. 253.

[211] Martial, _ibid._ i. p. 214.

[212] Mr. Bridges’ unpublished work, quoted by Hyades, _l.c._ vii. p.
377.

[213] Cranz, _Historie von Grönland_, i. p. 292.

[214] Cranz, _l.c._ p. 229.

[215] Codrington, _The Melanesians_, pp. 47, 48; cf. Romilly, _My
Verandah in New Guinea_, p. 87.

[216] Kleinschmidt, in _Journal des Museum Godeffroy_, xiv. 1879, p.
268. (“Reisen auf den Viti Inseln. Insel Vatu Lele”). Williams, _Fiji_,
pp. 99, 142; Spencer, _Descriptive Sociology_, Division I. Nr. iii. p.
60.

[217] Letherman, in _Smithsonian Report_, 1855, pp. 295, 296 (The
Navajo tribe).

[218] Cf. Matthews, _Navaho Legends_, pp. 22-26, where the assertions
of Dr. Letherman are quoted and opposed.

[219] Cook. (1st) _Voyage_, p. 388; Lubbock, _Prehistoric Times_, p.
426; Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, iii. p. 78.

[220] Schoolcraft, _Indian Tribes_, ii. p. xii.

[221] Schoolcraft, _l.c._ i. p. 18.

[222] Lubbock, _l.c._ p. 426.

[223] Kane, _Wanderings_, p. 179.

[224] See _infra_, p. 175.

[225] With regard to the traditional art of the Australian natives
compare Spencer and Gillen, _Native Tribes_, pp. 220 _sq._ 473, 485;
Lloyd, _Tasmania and Victoria_, p. 466.

[226] Cf. _e.g._ Steinen, _Durch Central Brasilien_, pp. 266, 267, on a
Yuruna dance.

[227] Cf. Bourke, _Scatologic Rites_, p. 25.

[228] Bourke, “The Medicine-men of the Apache,” in _Rep. Bur. Ethnol._
ix. 1887-88.

[229] Cf. Bourke, _Scatologic Rites_, pp. 6, 7, 64, and the author’s
_Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, pp. 114, 119.

[230] Bourke, _The Snake-Dance of the Moquis_, pp. 178, 179.

[231] Cf. the author’s _Skildringar ur Pueblo folkens konstlif_ (The
Art-life of the Pueblo-Indians), _passim_.

[232] Cf. Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, i. p. 797.

[233] Cf. especially Fewkes, “The Snake Ceremonials at Walpi,” in
_Journ. American Ethnology and Archæology_, vol. iv., especially pp.
119, 124.

[234] A detailed account of these prayers has been given in _Pueblo
folkens konstlif_, passim.

[235] Cf. Tylor, _Prim. Culture_, i. pp. 392 _sq._

[236] Mooney, in _The American Anthropologist_, iii. pp. 108, 109 (“The
Cherokee Ball-Play”).

[237] Groos, _Die Spiele der Menschen_, pp. 246, 247.

[238] Réclus, _Les Primitifs_, p. 356. For some unmistakable examples
of myths secondary to the corresponding rites see Spencer and Gillen,
_Native Tribes of Central Australia_, p. 443.

[239] Cf. Abercromby, _Pre-and Proto-historic Finns_, i. pp. 358, 359,
ii. p. 41.

[240] Erman, _Travels_, ii. pp. 50, 51.

[241] Lubbock, _Origin of Civilisation_, pp. 356 _sq._

[242] Cf. Kingsley, _Travels_, p. 473. On the difficulty of deciding
whether a given piece of sculpture is to be interpreted as an idol
or as a merely memorial portrait, see Brinton, _Report upon the
Collections_, etc., p. 33.

[243] Schweinfurth, _Artes Africanæ_, pl. viii. f. 5; Cruickshank,
_Eighteen Years on the Gold Coast_, ii. pp. 270, 271; Schmeltz,
_Ethnol. Abtheil. des Mus. Godeffroy_, p. 241.

[244] Codrington, _The Melanesians_, pp. 173, 174. The same views have
been expressed by Finsch, _Ethnologische Erfahrungen_, pp. 255-257;
_Samoafahrten_, pp. 47-49, 75, 175.

[245] Polack, _New Zealand_, i. pp. 115, 116, 236, 237; Robley, _Moko_,
pp. 88 _sq._ Cf. about “Moko”-tattooing as a means of recognising
individuals, living or dead, Robley, _l.c._ pp. 131, 146, 147, 159.

[246] Andree, _Ethnographische Parallelen_, i. pp. 258-261. The remarks
of Herr Andree have been emphatically supported by von den Steinen,
_Unter den Naturvölkern Central Brasiliens_, p. 244; cf. also Hoffman,
_Ethnographic Observations_, in U.S. Geol. and Geogr. Survey, 1876,
especially p. 475.

[247] Im Thurn, _Indians of Guiana_, pp. 403-410. On similar grounds
the application of Herr Andree’s theory to the North American
Petroglyphs has been opposed by Mallery, in _Rep. Bur. Ethnol._ x. pp.
28, 29 (“Picture-writing of the American Indians”).

[248] Svoboda, in _Archiv für Ethnographie_, v. pp. 162, 163. Cf. also
Meyer, _Bilderschriften des Ostindischen Archipels_, p. 1.

[249] Cf. Grey, _Journals_, ii. p. 310.

[250] As typical illustrations of this class of legends we may instance
the Polynesian poems quoted by Fornander, _The Polynesian Race_, ii.
12-19, 284-286.

[251] Cf. pp. 160, 161, in the preceding, and Gill, _From Darkness to
Light_, pp. 248-264.

[252] See Ellis, _Polynesian Researches_, i. p. 286; iv. pp. 79, 101,
105; Pritchard, _Polynesian Reminiscences_, p. 125; Polack, _New
Zealanders_, ii. p. 167; and, above all, the collection of traditional
war-poetry from the Hervey Group, published by Gill in _From Darkness
to Light_.

[253] Cf. above, p. 165.

[254] Oviedo, _Histoire des Indes_, pp. 69, 70; Markham, in the
Introduction to his translation of _Ollanta_, pp. 1, 2; Spencer,
_Descr. Soc._ ii. pp. 13, 68, 70, 71; Forbes, _Dahomey_, ii. p. 13. On
historical songs among the military tribes of Africa cf. also Shooter,
_The Kafirs_, p. 268; Burton, _Lake Regions_, i. p. 263 (Wagogos).
As regards the influence of war on early Arab poetry see Posnett,
_Comparative Literature_, p. 133.

[255] Cf. _e.g._ the humble traditions of the Kubus, as quoted by
Forbes, _Wanderings_, p. 243.

[256] Laing, _Travels_, p. 186 (Village Kamia); Dobrizhoffer, _The
Abipones_, ii. pp. 430, 431.

[257] Parker, _Aborigines of Australia_, pp. 25, 26; Howitt in _Journ.
Anthr. Inst._ xiii. pp. 453, 454 (Australian ceremonies of initiation),
and Cameron in the same journal, xiv. p. 358 (Tribes of N.S. Wales);
the last two instances quoted in Frazer, _Totemism_, p. 47. See also
Fison, “The Nanga,” in _J. A. I._ xiv., esp. p. 22, on an initiation
ceremony in Fiji, representing the ancestors lying dead and coming
to life again, which curiously resembles Collins’s description and
pictures of an Australian initiation (Collins, _N.S. Wales_, i. p.
575). For a somewhat analogous drama in East Africa see Dale, _Journ.
Anthr. Inst._ xxv. p. 189 (Bondi country). For interpretation of all
these rites see Frazer, _Totemism_, p. 47; and _The Golden Bough_, ii.
pp. 343-359.

[258] Carver, _Travels_, pp. 175-180; Schoolcraft, _Information_, v.
pp. 428 _sq._ Both quoted by Frazer. To be compared with the initiation
into the Secret Society of Nkimba—Ward in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxiv.
pp. 288, 289 (Congo tribes).

[259] Crane, _Bases of Design_, p. 189.

[260] Cf. Haddon, _Evolution in Art_, pp. 220, 221.

[261] Brown, _Hist. of the Origin and Rise of Poetry_, pp. 49, 50.

[262] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 103, 124, 125; cf. also ii.
pp. 436, 437, and _The Origin of Species_, i. p. 109.

[263] Ribot, _Psychologie de l’attention_, pp. 44, 45.

[264] Espinas, _Des sociétés animales_, p. 284.

[265] Brehm, _Thierleben_, v. pp. 601, 602; cf. also Wallace, _Tropical
Nature_, p. 199.

[266] Nilsson, _Foglarna_, ii. p. 56; Lloyd, _Game Birds and Wild
Fowl_, p. 81.

[267] Geddes and Thomson, _The Evolution of Sex_, p. 28.

[268] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 107-109, 252.

[269] Cf. Wallace, _Tropical Nature_, pp. 196-198, _Darwinism_, p. 284;
Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 244, 250.

[270] Wallace, _Tropical Nature_, pp. 193, 209, 210, 213; _Darwinism_,
pp. 284, 287, 292, 294.

[271] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. p. 103.

[272] Cf. Wallace, _Darwinism_, p. 293; _Tropical Nature_, p. 199.

[273] Cf. Schneider, _Der Thierische Wille_, p. 367.

[274] Cf. about the relation between sexual ripening and the
development of the vocal organs, Buffon, _Hist. nat. des oiseaux_, i.
pp. 21, 22.

[275] For some suggestive remarks in this direction see Espinas, _Des
sociétés animales_, p. 313; and the anonymous paper on “The Descent of
Man” in _The Quarterly Review_, 1871, vol. cxiii. p. 62.

[276] Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 245, 249.

[277] Lindsay, _Mind in the Lower Animals_, i. p. 252, 253; ii. pp.
126, 219, 220; Grant Allen, _The Colour Sense_, pp. 119, 157, 167;
Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, p. 247.

[278] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 123-125; Nilsson,
_Foglarna_, i. pp. 202, 206; Lindsay, _Mind in the Lower Animals_, ii.
p. 152; Cornish, _Life at the Zoo_, pp. 101-103, 105, 106.

[279] Romanes, _Darwin_, i. p. 381; Büchner, _Liebe und Liebes-Leben_,
p. 52.

[280] Beccari, “Le capanne dell’ Amblyornis inornata,” in _Annali del
museo civico di storia naturale di Genova_, ix. pp. 382-391.

[281] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. p. 77.

[282] Cf. especially the dresses of _Homophania insectivora_,
_Petasophora cyanotis_, and _Steganura underwoodi_, as depicted in
Mulsant, _Hist. nat. des oiseaux-mouches_, Pl. 62, 91a, 110.

[283] Binet, _Le fétichisme dans l’amour_, etc., pp. 257 _sq._
(_L’intensité des images mentales_).

[284] Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 243, 283; cf. also Hellwald,
_Die menschliche Familie_, pp. 14-16; Van Ende, _Hist. nat. de la
croyance_, I. _L’animal_, p. 238.

[285] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 106, 107.

[286] Wallace, _Darwinism_, pp. 284, 287, 292, 294.

[287] Spencer, _Essays_, ii. pp. 427, 430, 431. Some of the arguments
of Spencer had been adduced by Barrington in his polemic against
Buffon. Cf. _Philosophical Transactions_, 1773, pp. 262, 263
(Experiments on the singing of birds).

[288] Hudson, _The Naturalist in La Plata_, pp. 280 _sq._

[289] A more detailed account of this question has been given in the
author’s _Förstudier till en konstfilosofi_, pp. 29, 30.

[290] Espinas, _Des sociétés animales_, p. 328.

[291] For experiments proving the invigorating effects of
colour-impression upon the animal organism, particularly upon insects,
see Féré, _Pathology of Emotions_, p. 23.

[292] Brehm, _Thierleben_, iv. p. 20; cf. also Schneider, _Der
thierische Wille_, p. 172; Espinas, _l.c._ p. 286; Groos, _The Play of
Animals_, pp. 242-244.

[293] Groos, _l.c._ p. 242.

[294] Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 244, 245; _Die Spiele der
Menschen_, pp. 329-340.

[295] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 18, 94, 110, 137.

[296] _Ibid._ ii. p. 251. When advocating the Darwinian theory of
sexual selection, Professor Poulton seems to use the notion “æsthetic
appreciation” in this wide sense. Cf. _Colours of Animals_, p. 286.

[297] Cf. Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 67, 74.

[298] _Ibid._ ii. p. 67.

[299] Nilsson, _Foglarna_, ii. p. 185.

[300] _Ibid._ ii. p. 8; i. p. 509.

[301] Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 200, 201, 212.

[302] _Ibid._ pp. 196, 198.

[303] Schurtz, _Grundzüge einer Philosophie der Tracht_, pp. 21, 57,
77, 80.

[304] As regards these various means of “embellishment” see the
collection of instances in Magitot, “Les mutilations ethniques,” in
_Congrès d’anthropologie_, 1880.

[305] Cf. Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 265, 266; Lippert,
_Kulturgeschichte_, i. pp. 368, 369.

[306] Cf. Brinton, _Races and Peoples_, p. 43.

[307] Ahlqvist, _Muistelmia_, p. 11.

[308] Humboldt, _Travels_, iii. p. 236; cf. Joest, _Tätowiren_, pp. 14,
15; Brinton, _Races and Peoples_, p. 42.

[309] Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, p. 263; Lippert,
_Kulturgeschichte_, i. pp. 402-405.

[310] Cf. Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 195, 200, 201.

[311] Westermarck, _l.c._ pp. 196-198; cf. also Finsch, _Ethnologische
Erfahrungen_, p. 44 (New Zealand).

[312] Fritsch, _Die Eingeborenen Süd-Afrikas_, pp. 58, 59; Steinen,
_Under den Naturvölkern_, pp. 191, 192; Lisiansky, _Voyage_, p. 86;
Moseley in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ vi. p. 398; Finsch, _l.c._ pp. 64,
85, 225; Roth, W. E., _N.W.C. Queensland Aborigines_, p. 113; Wilken,
_Nederlandsch-Indië_, pp. 37, 38; _Führer durch das Museum für
Völkerkunde_, p. 87.

[313] Roth, _l.c._ p. 114.

[314] Wilken, _l.c._ p. 38; cf. also Steinen, _l.c._ pp. 195, 196.

[315] Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, p. 209.

[316] For some curious superstitions of this kind see Schneider, _Die
Naturvölker_, i. p. 269.

[317] Somerville, in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxiii. p. 368 (Notes on the
New Hebrides).

[318] Elworthy, _The Evil Eye_, pp. 16, 148-154; Schurtz, in _Archiv
für Anthropologie_, xxii. p. 60 (Amulette und Zaubermittel); Svoboda,
_Geschichte der Ideale_, i. pp. 294-296, on obscene amulets in
classical art. It may be remarked that ithyphallic talismans are
especially numerous in and about New Guinea. Cf. Schmeltz in De Clercq,
_Nederlandsch Nieuw-Guinea_, p. 244.

[319] Kleinpaul, _Sprache ohne Worte_, p. 275. Cf. also the obscene and
indecent character of the devil dances on Ceylon—Sirr, _Ceylon_, ii.
p. 52. To the same superstitious motives we may perhaps also ascribe
the occurrence of improper dances and pantomimes at funerals, _i.e._
at an occasion when there is especial reason to fear the influence
of malignant spirits. For instances of such funeral ceremonies see
Laing, _Travels_, p. 368 (Soolimas); Metz, _Neilgherry Hills_, pp.
77, 78 (Badagas); Waitz, _Anthropologie der Naturvölker_, vi. p. 407
(Polynesia). The interpretation of these peculiar rites must, however,
necessarily be only hypothetical. For other explanations of them see
Réclus, _Les Primitifs_, p. 242, and Svoboda, _l.c._ i. p. 557.

[320] On exposure as an offence cf. the instructive instances quoted in
Ellis, _Man and Woman_, p. 61.

[321] Ratzel, _Völkerkunde_, i. p. 64. On superstitious motives for
covering the organs of generation cf. also Crawley in _Journ. Anthr.
Inst._ xxiv., especially pp. 441, 442 (Sexual Taboo). The Bible
text (Genesis ix. 21-25), which has been interpreted by Schurtz
(_Philosophie der Tracht_, p. 56) as a case of modesty, is undoubtedly
to be explained by reference to phallic superstitions.

[322] Spencer and Gillen, _Native Tribes_, p. 125. On somewhat similar
notions entertained by the North American Indians, cf. the instances
quoted in Tylor, _Primitive Culture_, ii. p. 24.

[323] Hartland, _Legend of Perseus_, i. pp. 179, 180; cf. also Marsden,
_Sumatra_, p. 297 (Lampongs).

[324] Hartland, _l.c._ i. p. 170.

[325] _Ibid._ i. p. 170; Frazer, _The Golden Bough_, ii. p. 237.

[326] Cf. Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, pp. 173 sq.; Joest,
_Tätowiren_, p. 56.

[327] Cf. Tetens and Kubary in _Journal des Museum Godeffroy_, ii.
p. 16 (Yap); Kubary, _l.c._ viii. p. 133 (Pelew Islands: Gems and
bracelets as badges and class distinctions); Angas, _Polynesia_,
pp. 293, 297 (Tahiti: different ranks among the Areoi distinguished
by different tattooings); Schmeltz, _Ethnol. Abtheilung des Museum
Godeffroy_, pp. 182 _sq._, 259-261, 478 _sq._ (Fiji; Marquesas Islands;
Samoa: tattooings as connected with distinctions of rank). These facts
are, as Schmeltz remarks, in direct opposition to the statements of
Finsch in _Verhandlungen d. Berlin Anthropol. Gesellschaft_, 1879, p.
414.—Lütke does not himself think that the richness of tattoo patterns
on the Caroline Islands stands in any relation to the rank of the
tattooed individual; but he admits that some members of his expedition
had got such an impression, _Voyage_, i. pp. 359, 360. The belief of
the Fijians, to which so curious an analogy has been found among the
Eskimos (Lubbock, _Prehist. Times_, p. 565; Hall, _Arctic Researches_,
p. 570), that only tattooed people are entitled to happiness after
death may perhaps be connected with notions of an Elysium reserved for
individuals of a certain rank. Cf. also _Ymer_, iv. p. 317, on the
views of the Pelew islanders as to nose ornaments as a condition for
entering the realm of spirits, and Finsch, _Ethnol. Erfahrungen_, p.
316, quoting, with reservation, Kirby on a Gilbert’s Island paradise,
open only to the spirits of tattooed people. With regard to the African
tribes we are unable to adduce any unambiguous instances of scars as
denoting rank and status. See, however, Ellis, _Eẃe-speaking Peoples_,
p. 146.

[328] Wundt, _Ethik._ p. 152.

[329] Kubary, _Journal des Museum Godeffroy_, viii. p. 133 (Pelew and
Ponape Islanders).

[330] Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, ii. pp. 75, 174 _sq._, 184
_sq._; Steinen, _Unter den Naturvölkern_, p. 179.

[331] With regard to the later developments of such triumphal signs
compare _e.g._ Wuttke, _Geschichte d. Schrift_, i. pp. 108 _sq._;
Wilken, _Nederlandsch-Indië_, pp. 36, 37; Joest, _Welt-Fahrten_, ii. p.
301 (Formosa); Burchell, _Travels_, ii. p. 535 (Bachapins).

[332] Schneider, _Die Naturvölker_, i. pp. 109, 110; Robley, _Moko_,
p. 46; Godden in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxvi. p. 185 (Nagas); Man,
_Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xii. p. 35, thinks that the Andamanese tattooing
is executed “primarily as ornamental, and secondarily as proving the
courage of the individual and his (or her) power of enduring pain.”

[333] Schneider, _l.c._ i. p. 107.

[334] On tattooing as a pictography compare Wuttke, _Geschichte der
Schrift_, i. pp. 97-99, 102.

[335] Stolpe, _Tätowirung der Oster-Insulaner_, p. 8.

[336] Cf. Sarasin, _Forschungen auf Ceylon_, iii. p. 511 (Magical
cords worn by the Veddas: the custom considered to be of Singhalese
origin); Man, _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xii. p. 86 (Bone necklaces worn by
the Andamanese as a cure for sickness); _Ibid._ p. 170 (Superstitious
notions of the Andamanese with regard to tattooing); Stevens, “Wilde
Stämme Malâkas,” in _Veröff. d. Mus. Völkerkunde_, ii. p. 145 (Amulet
collars); Marshall, _Todas_, p. 49 (Rings and bracelets as charms);
Elliot, _Memoirs on the Races of the N. W. Provinces of India_, i.
p. 240 (Black “mouches” worn on the face for averting evil eye);
Bock, _Temples and Elephants_, p. 170 (Superstitious tattooings
among Burmese and Ngious); Smyth, _Victoria_, i. p. 112; and Taplin,
“The Narrinyeri,” in Woods, _Native Tribes_, p. 21 (Hair of deceased
worn around the head in order to make “the eyes large and the sight
keen”); Roth, _Tasmania_, p. 76 (Bones of deceased worn as amulets);
Kingsley, _Travels_, p. 448 (Charm-gems in W. Africa); Ellis, _W.
African Sketches_, p. 9 (Bodily painting as medical cure among Fantis),
pp. 191, 192 (Tattooing supposed to strengthen a child). For further
interesting instances see Wuttke, _Geschichte der Schrift_, i. p. 77;
cf. also the facts about laceration as medical cure collected on p. 67
in the preceding.

[337] Steinen, _Unter den Naturvölkern_, p. 184.

[338] _Ibid._ _l.c._ pp. 173, 186; cf. the assertions of Burton, _Lake
Regions_, ii. p. 63 (Wajiji Tribe: Tattooing explained as a protection
against the humid atmosphere); Roth, _Tasmania_, pp. 139-141.

[339] Lippert, _Kulturgeschichte_, i. pp. 18, 365, 366.

[340] Cf. Haddon, _Evolution in Art_, p. 203; Grosse, _Anfänge der
Kunst_, pp. 130-133.

[341] Robley, _Moko_, pp. 10-16. Cf., however, Shortland (_New
Zealand_, pp. 16, 17), who explains Moko as being only a “fashionable
mode of adornment,” and Dieffenbach (_New Zealand_, ii. p. 34), who
thinks that the use of Moko for signatures is a modern invention.
Tattooings which serve as individual marks of recognition are
mentioned by Heriot, _Travels through the Canadas_, p. 293; Fraser,
_Aborigines of New South Wales_, p. 45; Herr Koeler (_Monatsberichte
der Gesellschaft für Erdkunde_, iii. p. 51) thinks that the scars of
the Australians—“these genealogical indices”—may to some extent make up
for the want of proper names.

[342] With regard to marks of tribal distinction compare the facts
collected by Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, ii. pp. 72-75; Frazer,
_Totemism_, pp. 26-30. Even those who do not believe in Mr. Frazer’s
assertion that the paintings, coiffures, tattooings, etc., aim at an
imitation of the totem animal, will be compelled to admit that they
often serve as means of distinguishing members of the same totem group.
Buckland, _Anthropological Studies_, pp. 224, 225, 231 (On tattooing);
Starcke, _The Primitive Family_, pp. 42, 62; Wuttke, _Geschichte der
Schrift_, i. pp. 80 _sq._

Further instances, unmentioned by these authors, are to be found in
Godden, _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxvi. pp. 184, 185 (Nagas and other
Frontier Tribes of North-East India); Fytche, _Burma_, i. pp. 351, 352
(Khyengs said to tattoo their women in order to prevent their being
carried off by neighbouring tribes); Im Thurn, _Indians of Guiana_,
pp. 196, 305; Dobrizhoffer, _The Abipones_, ii. p. 19; Steinen, _Unter
den Naturvölkern Central Brasiliens_, pp. 179, 180, 190; Kingsley,
_Travels in West Africa_, pp. 530, 531; Ellis, _West African Sketches_,
p. 191; _Eẃe-speaking Peoples_, p. 146; Lander, _Journal_, iii. p.
61 (Kacundas); Johnston, _British Central Africa_, pp. 422-424; Ward
in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxiv. p. 294 (Congo Tribes); Wissman, _Im
Inneren Afrikas_, p. 246 (Bacubas). In his account of the Niger tribes
M. Binger has succeeded in minutely classifying the tattoo patterns
according to tribes and families (Binger, _Du Niger_, etc., ii. pp.
408-411). It is evidently impossible to decide to how great a degree
the uniformity in the decorative systems of the several tribes has
its origin in an intentional endeavour to develop a distinct tribal
appearance. It may in many cases be merely a result of limited powers
of invention.

As to the scarification of the Australian natives the evidence seems
to be contradictory. If we are to believe Mr. Taplin’s informer,
incisions on the body would have been used by the Noocoonas in order
to distinguish tribes “before whites came” (Taplin, _Folklore of S.
Australia_, p. 65). These assertions have, however, been called in
question by the informers of Curr (_Australian Race_, ii. pp. 468,
475), by Spencer and Gillen (_Native Tribes_, pp. 42-44), and by
Stirling (_Rep. Horn Exp. IV. Anthropology_, p. 24); cf. also Roth, _N.
W. C. Queensland_, pp. 110, 115.

[343] For some further instances illustrating the use of “decoration”
for purely practical purposes see Mallery, in _Rep. Bur. Ethnol._ x. p.
418; Westermarck, _Human Marriage_, p. 176.

[344] Finsch, _Ethnologische Erfahrungen_, pp. 283, 284 (Mikronesia);
in _Verhandlungen d. Berlin Anthropol. Gesellschaft_, 1879, p. 414
(Markesas Islands); and in _Zeitschrift für Ethnologie_, xii. p. 308
(Ponape); Stirling in _Rep. Horn Exp._ iv. p. 31 (Central Australia);
Stokes, _Discoveries_, i. pp. 58, 59 (South-Western Australia); Bock,
_Temples and Elephants_, pp. 170-172 (Laos).

[345] Spencer, _Essays_, ii. pp. 433-435 (The Origin of Music).

[346] On the stimulating influence which women may exercise on
warriors, and on the sensitiveness of warriors to female appreciation
or criticism, see for example Spencer, _Descr. Soc._ Div. I. Nr. iii.
p. 60 (Tasmanians); Nr. v. p. 3 (Bedouins); Mantegazza, _Physiologie
des Hasses_, pp. 143-145.

[347] Gurney, _Power of Sound_, p. 159, quoted by Wallaschek,
_Primitive Music_, p. 211.

[348] Wallaschek, _l.c._ pp. 210-213.

[349] Hudson, _The Naturalist in La Plata_, p. 279.

[350] Groos, _The Play of Animals_, pp. 244, 245.

[351] Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 387-409.

[352] Berchon, “Le tatouage,” in _Actes de l’Académie de Bordeaux_,
1885, pp. 806, 807. Cf. also Joest, _Tätowiren_, pp. 29, 53-55, 60-65.
Although Berchon himself remarks (p. 811) that in Polynesia the
reverence for tattooing is dying out, he has not happened to think
that this circumstance may have been the cause of the laxity in tattoo
composition.

[353] Cf. Cook, (1st) _Voyage_, pp. 206-208; cf. p. 265 (Tahiti). For
other Polynesian erotic dances see Marques in _Boletim da Sociedade de
Geographia de Lisboa_, viii. p. 60 (Samoa); Turner, _Samoa_, p. 125;
Gill, _South. Pacific_, p. 20 (Hervey Islands); Rienzi, _Océanie_,
iii. p. 160 (Maori Slave Girls). On Polynesian dance parties, arranged
in order to bring into notice the daughters of the chiefs and nobles,
cf. Gill, _From Darkness to Light_, pp. 29, 253 (Mangaia); Ellis,
_Pol. Res._ i. pp. 215-217 (Tahiti); Vancouver, _Voyage_, i. p. 119.
(Tahiti). Examples of similar dances and pantomimes, often in plain
connection with sexual orgies, can be found among Australians and
Melanesians. Cf. especially Eyre, _Expeditions into Central Australia_,
ii. p. 235; Mathew in Curr, _Australian Race_, iii. pp. 168, 169 (Mary
River Natives). Koeler in his list of Australian words describes
“Korrobbora” as an obscene dance-pantomime performed by men before the
women; _Monatsber. d. Ges. für Erdkunde zu Berlin_, iii. p. 53; Mathews
in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxv. pp. 226-228 (Kamilaroi); Woods, _Native
Tribes_, p. 38 (Taplin, “The Narrinyeri”), p. 243 (Schürmann, “Port
Lincoln Tribe,” men and women dancing some rounds together); Spencer
and Gillen, _Native Tribes_, p. 381. Few of these facts, however,
entitle us to assume a simple purpose of _pleasing_ the opposite sex.

[354] Burton, _Zanzibar_, i. pp. 430, 431; Ellis, _West African
Sketches_, p. 226 (Country Dance in Mankessin); Laing, _Travels_, pp.
104, 105 (Timannees); Nachtigal, _Sahărâ und Sûdân_, i. pp. 101, 102
(Murzuk, Fezzân); Sparrman, _Resa_, i. p. 421 (Hottentots). For general
descriptions of this kind of dancing see Fr. Müller, _Allgemeine
Ethnographie_, p. 172.

[355] Marsden, _Sumatra_, p. 298 (Lampong Country); Brenner, _Besuch
bei den Kannibalen_, p. 331 (Sumatra); Joest, _Weltfahrten_, ii. pp.
159, 160 (Seram); Blumentritt, _Filippinen_, p. 17 (Tagals), p. 41
(Catalangaus).

[356] Dalton, _Ethnology of Bengal_, pp. 196-198 (Hos and Mundaris);
Lewin, _Wild Races_, pp. 123-125 (Khyoungtha Love Songs), p. 188
(Chukma Songs); Müller, _l.c._ p. 471 (Kolh Dances).

[357] Dalton, _l.c._ pp. 142-144 (Bhuiyas).

[358] _Ibid._ pp. 135, 149, 300.

[359] _Ibid._ p. 196.

[360] Lewin, _Wild Races_, pp. 123-125.

[361] _Ibid._ p. 188.

[362] Selenka, _Sonnige Welten_, pp. 349-352; Brenner, _Besuch bei den
Kannibalen_, pp. 328 _sq._ (Bataks); Forbes, _Wanderings_, p. 149;
Marsden, _Sumatra_, pp. 197, 198, 267; Rienzi, _Océanie_, i. pp. 134,
135, all on poetry from Sumatra; Blumentritt, _Filippinen_, p. 17;
Jagor, _Filippinen_, p. 236 (Bisayas); Martin, _Mollukken_, pp. 292,
293; Hickson, _Celebes_, pp. 272-274, 301-304.

[363] Curr, _Australian Race_, iii. pp. 168, 169.

[364] Cf. on the erotic poetry in Tahiti, Cook, (3rd) _Voyage_, ii. p.
149; on Maori erotic poetry, Dieffenbach, _New Zealand_, ii. p. 57.

[365] Morgan, _Iroquois_, pp. 260, 284-287; Baker, _Musik der
Nordamerikanischen Wilden_, p. 56.

[366] Cf. Brinton, _Essays_, pp. 293-297; Markham, _Ollanta_, pp. 1, 2.

[367] Hyades, _Mission Scientifique_, vii. p. 377; cf. p. 239.

[368] Bailey, _Trans. Ethnol. Soc._ N. S. ii. p. 301; Davy, _Ceylon_,
p. 118; Deschamps, _Au pays des Veddas_, pp. 386-389; Emerson Tennent,
_Ceylon_, ii. p. 450; Hoffmeister, _Travels_, p. 164; Sarasin,
_Ergebnisse_, iii. pp. 512-518, 546; Schmidt, _Ceylon_, pp. 73, 74; De
Zoysa, _Journ. Ceylon Br. R. A. S._ 1881, p. 114,—all on Vedda dancing.

Sarasin, _l.c._ pp. 510, 519-523; Bailey, _l.c._ p. 289; Deschamps,
_l.c._ pp. 386 _sq._; Nevill in _The Taprobanian_, ii. pp. 121-127; De
Zoysa, _l.c._ pp. 98-115,—all on Vedda poetry.

[369] See Fritsch, _Eingeborenen Süd-Afrikas_, pp. 425, 426; Holub,
_Süd-Afrika_, ii. pp. 465, 469, 470; and the interesting communication
in _The Academy_, 1878, p. 463.

[370] Roth, W. E., _N. W. C. Queensland Aborigines_, pp. 119, 120,
131; Spencer and Gillen, _Native Tribes_, passim (On the elaborate
decorations and paraphernalia used in the dramatic rites of
initiation); Hill and Thornton, _Aborigines of New South Wales_, pp. 7,
8; Lang, _Australia_, pp. 28, 29.

[371] Cf. Darwin, _The Descent of Man_, ii. pp. 400, 401, 418.

[372] Scott, “Sex and Art,” in _American Journal of Psychology_, vii.,
especially p. 183.

[373] Cf. Büchner, _Liebe und Liebes-Leben_, p. 53.

[374] Savage, _New Zealand_, pp. 84, 85; Ellis, _Polynesian Res._ i. p.
217 (Tahiti); Gill, _The South. Pacific_, p. 20; Romilly, _My Verandah
in New Guinea_, p. 88.

[375] Sarasin, _Ergebnisse_, iii. p. 518.

[376] Cf. _e.g._ Johnston, _British Central Africa_, p. 408; Crawley,
“Sexual Taboo,” _passim_, in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxiv.

[377] Cf. _e.g._ Lütke, _Voyage_, ii. pp. 276, 277, on Tschuktschi
dance; Cook, (3rd) _Voyage_, i. p. 251, on the dance of the Hapaee
women, some of the motions in which would, by a European, be thought
rather indecent, though perhaps they meant only to display the
astonishing variety of their movements.

[378] Reeves, _Brown Men and Women_, p. 160.

[379] Curr, _Austr. Race_, iii. p. 169 (Mathew, Mary River), on songs
describing the charms of a sweetheart. “Such songs are only known to a
few individuals, and are sung in private.”

[380] Cook. (3rd) _Voyage_, ii. p. 149.

[381] Spencer, _Descr. Soc._ Division I. Nr. v. p. 30.

[382] Cf. Johnston, _British Central Africa_, p. 408.

[383] Schurtz, _Das Augenornament_, pp. 49, 54.

[384] Cf. p. 217 in the preceding.

[385] Mathews in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxiv. p. 424.

[386] Fritsch, _Die Eingeborenen Süd-Afrikas_, p. 140.

[387] Johnston, _British Central Africa_, p. 408.

[388] Kidd, _Social Evolution_, p. 279; cf. Spencer, _Principles of
Sociology_, i. pp. 88, 89.

[389] Johnstone, _Maoria_, p. 43.

[390] Cf. Burton, _Mission to Gelele_, i. pp. 46, 51, 210, 267, 382;
ii. p. 10; Forbes, _Dahomey_, i. p. 24.

[391] Woods, _Native Tribes_, p. 37 (Taplin, “The Narrinyeri”).

[392] Burton, _Mission to Gelele_, i. pp. 149, 150; Acosta, _History of
the Indies_, ii. p. 444. For European trade dances see, _e.g._, Böhme,
_Tanz in Deutschland_, i. pp. 63 _sq._, 209.

[393] Féré, _Sensation et mouvement_, p. 4.

[394] Cf. Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, i. p. 48.

[395] Rengger, _Saeugethiere von Paraguay_, p. 12.

[396] Cf. the facts adduced by Rengger, _l.c._ p. 11.

[397] Salvado, _Voyage en Australie_, pp. 182, 183.

[398] As regards the general psychology of musical and poetical
exhortation to work cf. Chardin, _Voyages_, i. p. 160, quoted in
Bücher’s _Arbeit und Rhythmus_, pp. 48, 367. For typical instances
see Reade, _The African Sketch Book_, ii. p. 313 (Krumen); Wissman,
_Unter deutschen Flagge_, p. 43 (West African Carriers); Burton,
_Lake Regions_, ii. p. 291 (East Africa); Grove, _Dancing_, p. 16
(Egypt); Turner, _Nineteen Years in Polynesia_, pp. 317, 345; Lewin,
_Wild Races_, p. 271 (Lhoosai); Thomson, _New Zealand_, i. p. 167;
Dieffenbach, _New Zealand_, ii. p. 57.

[399] Cf. The satirical and erotic boat songs of the Gold Coast
Negroes—Winterbottom, _Africans of Sierra Leone_, i. p. 112, and the
historical and erotic ploughing songs of the ancient Peruvians—Markham,
_Ollanta_, pp. 1, 2.

[400] A collection of such working songs from among various civilised
nations has been brought together by Professor Bücher in his _Arbeit
und Rhythmus_.

[401] Cf. _e.g._ the interesting chapter on mill songs in Bücher’s
above-mentioned work. As an addendum to this collection we may adduce
the corn-grinding song of the Mapuché women—Smith, _The Araucanians_,
p. 306.

[402] Noiré, _Der Ursprung der Sprache_, pp. 331 _sq._

[403] Cf. _e.g._ Lenz, _Skizzen aus Westafrica_, pp. 198, 199, on the
exciting effects exercised by tam-tam music on the Okandes.

[404] See the boat-building songs of the Hervey Islanders (Gill, _South
Pacific_, p. 22), which form so striking an analogy to the magical
“Runos” of the old Finns. Cf. also Mason, _Origins of Invention_, p.
150 (Maoris).

[405] Lagrange, _Physiologie des exercises du corps_, pp. 32-35;
Souriau, _L’esthétique du movement_, pp. 58, 59.

[406] Féré, _Sensation et mouvement_, p. 12.

[407] Cf. the dynamogenic experiments of Féré, _Sensation et
mouvement_, pp. 13, 14, and the remarks of Schmidkunz, _Psychologie der
Suggestion_, p. 222.

[408] Bücher, _Arbeit und Rhythmus_, p. 261; Polack, _New Zealanders_,
i. p. 222; ii. pp. 31-32 (on the chiefs who, standing up in the canoes,
direct the rowing with help of their spear-truncheons); Kollman, _The
Victoria Nyanza_, p. 164 (Ussukuma).

[409] Cf. pp. 87-91 in the preceding.

[410] Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, ii. pp. 271, 272.

[411] Laing, _Travels_, pp. 252, 253; Brenner, _Kannibalen Sumatras_,
p. 258; Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New
Zealanders_, pp. 140, 144, 145, 150.

[412] Vodskov, _Sjæledyrkelse og Naturdyrkelse_, pp. lxxix.-lxxxi.;
Ratzel, _Völkerkunde, I. Einleitung_, p. 89.

[413] On songs and dances connected with boating see Muller, _Industrie
des Cafres_, p. 47; Burton, _Gorilla Land_, i. pp. 166, 167; Spencer,
_Descr. Soc._ Div. i. Nr. 3, p. 62 (Javanese); Angas, _Savage Life_, i.
p. 102 (Australia, canoe dance of the Rufus); Smyth, _Victoria_, i. pp.
174, 175 (Australian canoe dance); Rienzi, _Océanie_, iii. p. 159 (New
Zealand), and the facts collected by Bücher, _Arbeit und Rhythmus_, pp.
180-191.

[414] Bücher, _l.c._ pp. 200-202.

[415] Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, i. pp. 553-555, 567-574.

[416] Mitchell, _The Past in the Present_, p. 192; Groos, _Die Spiele
der Menschen_, pp. 435, 437.

[417] Cf. Wallaschek in _International Congress of Psychology_, 2nd
Session, p. 75.

[418] Cf. _e.g._ Lafitau, _Mœurs des sauvages_, i. p. 522 (“Les
Iroquois, et les autres sauvages leurs voisins”); Powers, _Tribes of
California_, p. 29 (Karok).

[419] Cf. Forbes, _Dahomey_, ii. p. 61. Mr. Forbes’s admiration for
the discipline and order displayed in the mass movements will be well
understood by all who witnessed the Dahomeyan dances performed at the
Crystal Palace in the summer season 1893.

[420] Thomson, _New Zealand_, i. pp. 126, 127; Earle, _New Zealand_,
p. 70; Mundy, _Our Antipodes_, pp. 129, 183; Shortland, _Trad. and
Superst. of the New Zealanders_, pp. 150-152.

[421] Cruise, _New Zealand_, pp. 30, 31.

[422] Bidwill, _Rambles in New Zealand_, pp. 81, 82.

[423] On ensemble and exact time in dancing cf. Cook, (1st) _Voyage_,
pp. 206-208 (Tahiti); (3rd) _Voyage_, i. p. 188 (Wateoo), pp. 247, 248,
255 (Hapaee); Ellis, _Pol. Res._ i. p. 215; Marques in _Boletim_, etc.,
viii. p. 59 (Samoa); Reeves, _Brown Men and Women_, p. 158 (Samoa);
Williams, _Fiji_, p. 142; Kleinschmidt in _Journ. d. Mus. Godeffroy_,
xiv. p. 268 (Fiji); Lütke, _Voyage_, i. p. 383 (Ualan. Caroline
Islands); Tetens and Kubary in _Journ. d. Mus. Godeffroy_, ii. p. 23
(Yap, Caroline Islands); Hernsheim, _Sudsee-Erinnerungen_, p. 34 (Yap).

The same virtues have also been admired in Australian dancing. See
_e.g._ Fraser, _Aborigines of N.S. Wales_, p. 66; Smyth, _Victoria_, i.
p. 168; ii. p. 294; Woods, _Native Tribes_, pp. xxxii., xxxiii., 272.
Cf. also Dalton, _Ethnology of Bengal_, pp. 254, 255 (Oráons); Lewin,
_Wild Races_, p. 227 (Kumis); p. 313 (Shendoos).

[424] Fritsch, _Eingeborenen Süd-Afrikas_, p. 91 (Ama Xosa); Casalis,
_The Basutos_, p. 147 (Kaffir and Basuto dance).

[425] Fritsch, _l.c._ p. 328. The authority of Herr Fritsch gives
sufficient credit to this assertion, although it is in direct
opposition to the statement of Kolbe, _Reise_, pp. 530, 531. Herr
Fritsch’s account of Hottentot dancing is, moreover, in substantial
agreement with Sparrman’s description, _Resa_, i. pp. 375, 376.

[426] Cf. with regard to the employment of horns, drums, pipes, etc.,
as military signals, Wallaschek, _Primitive Music_, pp. 88, 99, 100,
104, 111-113.

[427] See, for instance, the descriptions of Khond warfare in Spencer,
_Descriptive Sociology_, Division I. Nr. 5, p. 17 (quoting Campbell,
_Khondistan_, p. 42), and the reflections of Mr. Bidwill on Maori
courage as dependent upon musical and saltatory stimulation, _Rambles
in New Zealand_, pp. 82, 83. As these instances refer to tribes which
have been noted for the personal bravery which they develop when
excited, the need of artificial excitement must be far stronger among
timid tribes.

[428] Cf. the acute reflections of Cook, (1st) _Voyage_, p. 344.

[429] Beecham, _Ashanti_, p. 211; Schoolcraft, _Information_, i. pp.
79, 80 (Dacotas); Wood, _Nat. Hist. of Man_, i. p. 116 (Kaffir war
medicine).

[430] Kubary on Micronesian war tattooings in Joest, _Tätowiren_, p. 80.

[431] Mann in _Trans. Ethn. Soc._ N. S. v. p. 295 (Kaffirs);
Livingstone, _Miss. Travels_, pp. 198, 199 (Makololo dance
demonstration as a preparation to an intended fight); Schoolcraft,
_Information_, iv. p. 62 (Dacotas dance when they come in the
neighbourhood of the enemy’s country); Schomburgk, _Guiana_, ii.
(Macusis); Cook, (1st) _Voyage_, pp. 467, 468, and Angas, _Savage
Life_, i. pp. 328, 329 (Maoris); Cahusac, _La danse_, i. p. 108, on the
ancient Ethiopians, quoting Lukianos.

Ethnological literature affords numberless descriptions of dances
performed as an exercise to battle. As in the present connection we
have only to deal with means of stimulation, which immediately precede
the real action, all these instances are not to the point.

[432] Carver, _Travels_, pp. 174, 175; Schoolcraft, _Information_, iii.
p. 187, quoting Colden (of 1747) on the Iroquois; Acosta, _History
of the Indies_, ii. p. 444 (Peru); cf. also Lang, _Australia_, p.
29; Blumentritt, _Filippinen_, p. 16 (Tagal excitement during the
performance of war-pantomimes).

[433] Heckewelder, _Hist. of the Indian Nations_, p. 209; Schoolcraft,
_Information_ ii. p. 59 (N.A. Indians in general); v. pp. 526, 684
(Chippewas and Comanches); Morgan, _Iroquois_, pp. 268, 339; Burton,
_City of the Saints_, p. 177 (Prairie Indians); Casalis, _The Basutos_,
pp. 334, 335; Czervinski, _Geschichte des Tanzes_, pp. 251, 252
(Hungary).

[434] Joest, _Weltfahrten_, ii. pp. 160, 161. On a similar institution
among the Negroes see Mantegazza, _Physiologie des Hasses_, p. 318.

[435] Grey, _Journals_, ii. p. 303; cf. also Calvert, _Western
Australia_, p. 32; Salvado, _Voyage_, p. 182.

[436] Sproat, _Scenes and Studies_, p. 190.

[437] Cf. especially the quotations from Dupuis in Spencer, _Descr.
Soc._ Division I. Nr. 4, p. 47 (Ashantis); Ellis, _Pol. Res._ i. p. 287
(Tahiti); Cook, (1st) _Voyage_, p. 344 (New Zealand).

[438] Dobrizhoffer, _The Abipones_, ii. pp. 366, 367, 422-424, 427;
Thomson, _New Zealand_, i. pp. 126, 169.

[439] Dobrizhoffer, _l.c._ pages adduced above; Steinen, _Durch
Central-Brazilien_, p. 175, cf. also p. 165.

[440] Cf. Dobrizhoffer, _l.c._ ii. pp. 376, 385 _sq._

[441] Cf. Ellis, _Pol. Res._ i. p. 286 (Tahiti); Spencer, _Descr. Soc._
Division I. Nr. 3, p. 15 (Fiji); Thomson, _New Zealand_, i. p. 128;
Pritchard, _Pol. Rem._ p. 56; Wood, _Nat. Hist. of Man_, ii. pp. 58,
59, 280, 356 (Australia, Fiji, Samoa).

How great a part of the boastful expressions of contempt for the enemy
plays in the warfare of the American tribes can be seen from Heriot,
_Travels_, p. 449 (Iroquois). Cf. also Eyre, _Expeditions into Central
Australia_, ii. p. 224; Schweinfurth, _Im Herzen von Afrika_, ii. p. 25
(Niam Niam); Shooter, _The Kafirs_, pp. 197-199; Wood, _Nat. Hist. of
Man_, i. p. 581 (Cammas).

[442] Wood, _Nat. Hist. of Man_, i. p. 581. A typical and instructive
example of undangerous warfare on the Marshall Islands is described by
Finsch in _Ethnologische Erfahrungen_, p. 392.

[443] Bidwill, _Rambles in New Zealand_, p. 81; cf. Cook, (3rd)
_Voyage_, pp. 161, 162.

[444] (Maning), _Old New Zealand_, p. 49; Polack, _New Zealanders_, i.
p. 88; ii. pp, 166, 167.

[445] Polack, _l.c._ i. p. 28.

[446] Richardson, _Arctic Expedition_, i. p. 356; Bancroft, _Native
Races_, i. p. 68.

[447] Angas, _Savage Life_, ii. pp. 149, 150; Wood, _Nat. Hist. of
Man_, ii. pp. 161, 162.

[448] Macpherson, _Memorials of Service in India_, p. 79.

[449] Cf. Grosse, _Anfänge der Kunst_, pp. 58-60.

[450] Wuttke, _Geschichte der Schrift_, p. 74, quoting Silius Italicus,
Aelianus, and Valerius Maximus. Further quotations adduced in Farrer,
_Military Manners and Customs_, pp. 222-224. Cf. also Letourneau, _La
guerre_, p. 153.

[451] Cf. the remarks of Wood in _Nat. Hist. of Man_, ii. p. 599.

[452] Clavigero, _The History of Mexico_, i. p. 371.

[453] As to magical paintings on banners, standards, and shields, see
Hein, _Die bildenden Künste bei den Dayaks auf Borneo_, pp. 71, 72. Cf.
also the old Slavonic traditions related by Nagele in _Zeitschrift für
Völkerpsychologie_, xvii. p. 278 (Der Schlangen-Cultus).

[454] Joest, _Tätowiren_, p. 20; Polack, _New Zealanders_, i. p. 28
(Tahiti deformations of the skull).

[455] Bancroft, _Native Races_, i. pp. 101, 105 (Thlinkeets).

[456] Romilly, _My Verandah_, p. 42; Finsch, _Samoafahrten_, p.
91, Atlas, Tafel xxii.; _Ethnologische Erfahrungen_, p. 99 (Motu,
New Guinea), p. 243 (Kaiser Wilhelms Land, New Guinea), p. 630
(Bismarck-Archipel). Some fine specimens to be seen in the British
Museum.

[457] In later times, however, the Dyaks have begun to avail themselves
for this purpose of the hair of their deceased. Cf. Hein, _Die
Bildenden Künste bei den Dayaks_, p. 74.

[458] Hein, _Die Bildenden Künste bei den Dayaks auf Borneo_, p. 85.

[459] Marryat, _Borneo_, pp. 14, 15, 74-76; Selenka, _Sonnige Welten_,
pp. 80, 81.

[460] Hein, _l.c._ p. 19.

[461] For detailed arguments on this point see the author’s _Förstudier
till en konstfilosofi_, chap, iv., “On Gracefulness.”

[462] Cf. the illustrations in Hamilton’s _The Art Workmanship of the
Maori Race_.

[463] Earle, _New Zealand_, pp. 160, 161; cf. also Johnstone, _Maoria_,
p. 50.

[464] Cf. especially the specimens translated in Schoolcraft,
_Information_, ii. pp. 59 _sq._

[465] See the specimens of leather, bone, and textile works preserved
in ethnological collections, especially in Musée de Trocadéro, Paris.

[466] Cf. Posnett, _Comparative Literature_, p. 133.

[467] Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_, vol. i. p. 102; Lang, _Myth,
Ritual, and Religion_, i. pp. 94-100; Frazer, _The Golden Bough_, i.
pp. 9-12, 193-206. For further instructive instances see Ellis, _Eẃe
Peoples_, pp. 98, 99; _Tshi Peoples_, pp. 108, 109; Curr, _Australian
Race_, i. pp. 45-48; Woods, _Native Tribes_, pp. 23-26 (Facts referring
to Polynesia and Australia); Kotzebue, _Entdeckungsreise_, ii. p. 20
(Hawaji); Dieffenbach, _New Zealand_, ii. p. 59; Musters, _Patagonia_,
p. 12 (Tehuelches).

[468] See literature on the Couvade, and on the precautions to be
observed by men who expect to become fathers. We cannot here dwell on
the interesting theories, according to which totemistic doctrines and
regulations ought to be interpreted as based upon the conception of
a quite material substratum, connecting for eternity with each other
all individuals and generations of the same family. However fantastic
they may have appeared, the probability of these views has undeniably
been increased by the publication of those hitherto unknown details of
Australian ceremonialism that have been brought to light by Messrs.
Spencer and Gillen. But in questions like these it seems almost
impossible to discriminate between symbolical ideas and actions on the
one hand, and magical practices based on a real belief on the other.

[469] Cf. Andree, _Ethnographische Parallelen_, Neue Folge, p. 46;
Hartland, _The Legend of Perseus_, ii. p. 267.

[470] Cf. Rochas, _L’extériorisation de la sensibilité_, pp. 117-139.

[471] _Ibid._ p. 72.

[472] For the most illustrious and at the same time most lucid
statement of this analogy see the remarks of Milton in the preface to
_Samson Agonistes_.

[473] Cf. the curious instances and interpretations in Brière, _Essai
sur le symbolisme_, pp. 38-41.

[474] For dramatic elements in the ceremonies of rain-making, see
Frazer, _The Golden Bough_, i. pp. 13-18, 20; Bérenger-Féraud,
_Superstitions et survivances_, i. chap. viii.; iii. pp. 177-207;
Grimm, _Teutonic Mythology_, pp. 593-595 (vol. ii.); Lang, _Myth,
Ritual, and Religion_, i. pp. 97, 98; ii. p. 78. Further instances in
Roth, _N. W. C. Queensland_, pp. 167, 168; Woods, _Native Tribes_, pp.
276-278 (Gason, “Dieyerie Tribe”); Williams, _Fiji_, p. 194; Dalton,
_Ethnology of Bengal_, p. 261 (Oraons); Skeat, _Malay Magic_, p. 108;
Weston in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xxvi. p. 30 (Highlands of Central
Japan); Stevenson in _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ 1889-90, pp. 80, 94, 110, 111,
115, 116 (The Sia); Ralston, _Songs of the Russian People_, pp. 227,
228; Bonghi, _Römische Feste_, p. 181. Equally interesting is the
curious kind of negative magic that is practised by the Javanese “rain
preventers.” See _Glimpses of the Eastern Archipelago_, pp. 68-70 (J.
Kreemer, “Rain Preventers”).

[475] Frazer, _The Golden Bough_, i. pp. 22, 23; Grove, _Dancing_, p.
85; Ralston, _Songs of the Russian People_, pp. 186-188, 243 _sq._

[476] Grimm, _Teutonic Mythology_, pp. 764-772 (vol. ii.); Ralston,
_l.c._ pp. 210, 244-246; Zacher, “Kampf des Sommers und Winters,” in
_Globus_, xxxi. pp. 266-269, 284-286.

[477] Bérenger-Féraud, _l.c._ v. pp. 177-266; Hartland, _The Legend of
Perseus_, i. pp. 173, 174; Soldi, _La langue sacrée_, p. 317 (France);
Powers, _Tribes of California_, p. 169 (The Senel).

[478] Selenka, _Sonnige Welten_, pp. 429-431 (Sinhalese); Fraser,
_Aborigines of New South Wales_, p. 65.

[479] That the priests who in dance and drama impersonate a god are
considered—and perhaps also consider themselves—as embodiments of this
god is a view the probability of which is borne out by many details
of religious ritualism. If definite proofs are wanted we need only
refer to the express statements of the Zuñi Indians as related by Mrs.
Stevenson, _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ 1889-90, p. 116 (Stevenson, “The Sia”);
1883-84, p. 549 (Stevenson, “Religious Life of the Zuñi Child”).

[480] Fairer, _Primitive Manners and Customs_, pp. 65, 66. This view
may of course also be applied to the interpretation of “pictorial
prayers,” such as _e.g._ the wonderful sand-mosaics of the Pueblo
Indians.

[481] Collins, _The English Colony of N.S. Wales_, i. p. 367.

[482] As regards this almost universal practice see the collection
of instances in Tylor, _Early History_, pp. 277-279; and _Primitive
Culture_, ii. p. 146; Peschel, _Völkerkunde_, p. 274; Stoll,
_Suggestion und Hypnotismus_, pp. 166, 167. Further instructive
instances in Brinton, _Nagualism_, p. 11 (Modern Mexico); Castréu,
_Nordiska Resor._ i. p. 137 (Russian Lapps); Casalis, _The Basutos_,
p. 280; Lumholtz, _Among Cannibals_, p. 281 (Australia). Winterbottom,
_Native Africans of Sierra Leone_, i. pp. 252, 253, adduces some
ethnological examples, and refers for comparison to Paracelsus.

[483] Bérenger-Féraud, _Superst. et surviv._ i. pp. 523-540; cf. also
Gaidoz, _Un vieux rite medical_, pp. 73-84.

[484] Nyrop, “Kludetraedet” in _Dania_, i., particularly pp. 21-23; cf.
also _Dania_, i. p. 310; iii. pp. 139-141.

[485] Lenormant, _Magie und Wahrsagekunst der Chaldäer_, p. 73; Rochas,
_L’extériorisation de la sensibilité_, pp. 74-113 (rich collection of
instances referring to savage tribes, to mediæval Europe, and to modern
folklore); further instances in Skeat, _Malay Magic_, pp. 569-574;
Romilly, _Western Pacific_, p. 35 (New Britain); Selenka, _Sonnige
Welten_, p. 215 (Japan). That this crude superstition has been at
the bottom of many ceremonies which, from our point of view, appear
purely symbolical is shown by the curious death-sentences on absent
criminals—to be executed in effigy, “jusqu’à mort s’en suive”—which M.
Tarde has unearthed from among the old law-proceeds of Périgord. Tarde,
_Études pénales et sociales_, p. 241.

[486] Cf. as to dolls representing the corn spirits, Frazer, _The
Golden Bough_, i. pp. 332-346.

[487] Haddon in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ xix. p. 427 (Tribe of Torres
Strait; Models of Dugong used as charms to attract the fishes); Woldt
in _Arch, für Ethnographie_, i. p. 106 (Kultusgegenstände der Golden
und Giljaken; sculptures of fishes used for the same purpose by the
Golds); Spencer, quoting Motolinia, _Descr. Soc._ Div. ii. Nr. 2, p. 39
(similar customs among the old Azteks).

[488] Cf. especially the Sinhalese masks representing the symptoms of
various diseases as exhibited in the Museum für Völkerkunde in Berlin.

[489] On images of children worn by barren women in order to remove
sterility see Binger, _Du Niger_, ii. p. 230 (Agnis, Wolofs); Casalis,
_The Basutos_, p. 251; Taylor, _Te Ika a Maui_, p. 213; Powers, _Tribes
of California_, p. 318 (Nishinam). In this connection we may also refer
to the bird-shaped amulets of the North American Indians, which by some
authors have been explained as emblematic of maternity. Cf. Abbott,
_Primitive Industry_, p. 370. Whether they also have been thought of as
possessing a magical efficacy is, however, impossible to decide.

[490] Guaita, _Sciences maudites_, ii., i. p. 185.

[491] Raffles, _History of Java_, i. pp. 375, 376. For a similar
reasoning cf. Skeat, _Malay Magic_, pp. 23, 24.

[492] Bock, _Temples and Elephants_, p. 245.

[493] Rochas, _L’extériorisation de la sensibilité_, p, 101.

[494] Cf. _e.g._ Gooneratne in _Journ. Ceylon Branch R. Asiatic Soc._
1865, 1866, p. 71 (Demonology in Ceylon); Skeat, _Malay Magic_, pp. 45,
571. The same combination of the two classes of magic, as applied to a
medical cure, is instanced by Walhouse in _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ iv. p.
372 (Account of a leaf-wearing tribe).

[495] Cf. Ellis, _Yoruba Peoples_, pp. 99, 278; _Tshi Peoples_, pp. 98,
101, 176, 195.

[496] Schurtz in _Abhandlungen d. Sächs. Ges. d. Wissensch._ Ph. Cl.
xv. p. 52, quoting De Clercq en Schmeltz, _Nieuw Guinea_, p. 185. For
an interesting analogy see De Landa, _Relation des causes de Yucatan_,
p. 199.

[497] Schurtz, _l.c._ p. 47. Cf. with regard to other means of
animating idols by contact, Brenner, _Kannibalen Sumatras_, pp. 225,
226; Pleyte Wzn in _Globus_, lx. p. 289 (Religiöse Anschaungen der
Bataks).

[498] Matthews, The Mountain Chant, in _Rep. Bur. Ethn._ 1883, 1884,
especially pp. 426, 427.

[499] Cf. the Kalmuck tales quoted in Stoll, _Suggestion und
Hypnotismus_, p. 31.

[500] Cf. Lucretius, _De rerum natura_, iv. vv. 1-1035.

[501] Cf. the facts collected by Réclus in his pamphlet, _L’âme comme
souffle, ombre et reflet_, and by Frazer in _The Golden Bough_, i. pp.
143-149.

[502] Rochas, _L’extériorisation de la sensibilité_, p. 103.

[503] Andree, _Ethnographische Parallelen_, Neue Folge, p. 19.

[504] Cf. Ellis, _Eẃe-speaking Peoples_, p. 98.

[505] Cf. as the perhaps most typical example, Matthews, “The Prayer of
a Navajo Shaman,” in _The American Anthropologist_, i. (1888).

[506] Cf. _e.g._ Svoboda, _Gesch. d. Ideale_, i. pp. 495, 496.

[507] Cf. the theories of Réclus and Svoboda referred to in p. 217,
note 4, of the preceding.

[508] Cf. _e.g._ the typical instances of Naga funeral ceremonies
described by Dalton in _Ethnology of Bengal_, p. 40.

[509] This interpretation seems to be indicated _e.g._ in the case of
the rope-pulling at Chukma funerals (Lewin, _Wild Races_, p. 185).
As to the use of tugs of war for purposes of agricultural magic cf.
Haddon, _The Study of Man_, pp. 270-276.