I begin with imitative drawing, which seems to be widely practised, not

only by children but by primitive people as well, and will therefore

claim most of our attention. Its origin is not clearly determined,

though von den Steinen’s observations make out the case pretty clearly

for their connection with language of gesture. “The simplest drawings,”

he says, “are those connected with gesture. When a savage repeats the

cry of an animal in one of his spirited dramatic tales and wishes to

make the effect more forcible, he also imitates the creature’s bearing,

gait, and movements, and pictures special peculiarities, such as long

ears, trunk, horns, etc., in the air with his hand. Such actions

for the eye form a parallel to the voice imitation for the ear, but

when they still do not suffice, drawings are made on the sand. In

the absence of word equivalents for communicating with them I myself

have often taken refuge in such sand writing.”[583] He goes on to say

that he thinks, although his observation has been confined to Indian

tribes, the further development of drawing followed for the purposes of

communication after the idea of making pictures was once grasped; and

that finally they were made without such practical aim, efforts were

made to improve the technique, and all sorts of natural objects were

represented in interesting and novel aspects.[584]

I know of nothing that should hinder us from accepting this luminous

explanation and applying it to the origin of all drawing but for one

point, which does offer some difficulty. That a primitive hunter should

imitate animal bearing, gait, and movement is easily accounted for

by the instinct for dramatic imitation, but it takes us no nearer to

our goal; and, moreover, how does it happen that he adds the outline

of ears, trunk, or horns in the air to complete the picture? On this

point the whole question depends. Would this mode of suggesting contour

ever occur to a man who had never seen drawing? Does not the former

presuppose the latter, instead of accounting for it? I do not presume

to judge of the force of this objection, but feel that we can not

afford to ignore it. If it is a just one, von den Steinen’s explanation

of course falls to the ground, and there is apparently nothing left but

to refer the whole subject to playful experimentation. In this case we

would best proceed from the sand drawing, since it is probable that the

child or adult playfully marking on the sand accidentally produces some

semblance to a natural object and adopts it as his own. Thus the child

observed by Miss Shinn accidentally produced (110th week) a triangle

in the midst of aimless scribbling, and repeated it afterward with

conscious intent.[585] While absolute certainty is unattainable in such

instances, it would still be valuable to make observations on a child

who had never seen a pencil used for drawing or writing. Should such

a one go on from scribbling to drawing, our play idea would receive

valuable confirmation.

Another question is how far drawing, however acquired, may be regarded

as a play. The finished production of the artist’s pencil is not

always so, by any means, for in modern times his art requires all a

man’s energies, and becomes his life calling and his means of support.

Productions of dilettantes belong more to our sphere. But how is it

with primitive folk? Here, too, the play idea is often excluded, for

the reason that their drawings serve religious purposes, or are used as

picture writing; yet, according to the views of recent ethnologists,

it would be misleading to refer such drawing exclusively to these

ends. “We are convinced,” says Grosse, “that in the drawings of savage

people, with comparatively few exceptions, neither a religious nor any

other serious purpose is involved. We are perfectly right in trusting

the numerous witnesses who assure us that such drawings are made

simply for the pleasure of making them.”[586] This establishes the

pre-eminently playful character of primitive drawing and sculpture,

and the efforts of children are still more obviously so. Imitative

and imaginative play here join hands, the former making the point of

departure while the expanding and illuminating power of the latter is

needed to complete the satisfaction in the finished product.

As I am unfortunately unable to go into details,[587] I close the

subject with some general remarks on the character of such drawing.

For the child and for the savage the chief object of representation is

one of the most difficult of all, namely, living animals. Miss Shinn’s

niece, who began with mathematical figures, is an exception accounted

for by the fact that she was intentionally directed toward abstract

form. Even the geometrical patterns in primitive ornamentation may

often be traced to the imitation of animals, and a distinction between

the work of these people and that of children lies in the fact that

they prefer such figures while children incline to the human figure,

which is rarely represented by savages. The explanation of this is that

for the hunter the animals which he pursues form the chief objects

of his imagination, as any sportsman among ourselves who begins to

draw will illustrate. A third view is presented when we ask what is

the psychological antecedent of imitation. In civilized art it is as

a rule conscious perception of the actual object, as genuine artists

rarely paint from memory. But it is quite otherwise with children; they

object to drawing from Nature, as H. T. Lukens points out.[588] They

prefer to make the absent present by their art, and their passion for

drawing is considerably dampened by the practice in observation which

school discipline requires. The child’s model is commonly a mental

image, a fact which explains many of his particularities. The savage,

too, from what we know of his art, seems to produce it not directly

from the object, but from his impression of it, and thus it happens

that he represents effects of things which are not visible to the

beholder now, though they may have been elements of the scene which he

recollects, and explains, too, in part his almost incredible errors in

proportion and in the relative position of things, such as placing the

mustache of a European above the eyes, or even on top of the head.[589]

This suggests the distinction which Grosse makes between childish and

primitive art. He thinks it strange that the two are even considered

to be on a par, since children seldom show a trace of the hunter’s

close observation. The art of savages is, as a rule, naturalistic,

that of children symbolic; the only actual resemblance being the lack

of perspective in both. This view certainly contains an important germ

of truth, but the statement is extreme. It is true that many drawings

of primitive man display a remarkable truth to Nature, impossible to a

child, and, as Grosse rightly says, resulting from trained powers of

observation joined to the dexterity acquired in the manipulation of

weapons and tools. But this wider knowledge and greater skill seem to

me to be the sole grounds of difference, and the sharp distinction of

naturalistic and symbolic unwarranted. Of course, drawing is in itself

to a great degree symbolic, but the symbolism displayed by children,

surprising as it often is, does not betoken any special preference for

symbolism, but often results partly from incapacity and partly from the

exigencies of the subject being represented. When full representation

is unattainable they are satisfied to make their meaning intelligible,

and savages, too, often resort to similar expedients. Grosse himself

gives us some Australian drawings on wood where the human face is

represented without a mouth, just as often happens in childish efforts.

In these figures the fingers are symbolized by mere lines. In his

valuable chapter on drawing among the Bakaïri, von den Steinen points

out still closer analogy with children’s work. He says, for example,

that, as a rule, only three fingers and toes are indicated, to serve

as a suggestion for the rest. It seems to me that it is then rather a

question of more or less than any real difference.

Our next topic is the question of beauty, and here, too, the child and

the savage are close parallels. Both have a certain interest in the

introduction of colour which appeals to them, both object to carrying

out the full type, both probably draw from memory, and both lack almost

totally the appreciation of beautiful form. The savage, indeed, does

introduce the simpler elements of beautiful form in his ornamentation,

but in his representations of human and animal figures there is little

effort to preserve such outlines. This bears out our former conclusion

that savages have little appreciation for physical beauty as such, and

with children it is much the same. Some children, it is true, make a

general distinction between people who are beautiful and those who

are ugly, but in drawing not only the ability but often the intention

as well is wanting, to produce beautiful faces. When they do attempt

something definite in the way of expression it is much more likely to

be caricature of homeliness than beauty. It is known also that this

tendency is especially displayed in periods of highly developed art,

and more particularly by the Germans.

A final observation refers to children alone. I have already noted

that imitative play, in which the player appears in dramatic relation

to the puppet, while common enough with children, is not found in

adult art unless at the most a partial analogy is traceable in some

religious connections; these same principles apply to drawing. The

child plays with the figures he has drawn as with dolls, and gives us a

most attractive picture of his capacity for illusion. Marie G——, when

four and a half years old, wanted to draw a holy family. First came a

kneeling figure, whose position was most precarious—his knees would not

bend properly, and for reverently folded hands there was a confusion of

crossing lines. The little artist cried with annoyance: “The naughty

child doesn’t want to kneel. Joseph will be angry with him because he

won’t kneel down and say his prayers; he is stamping and scolding.—You

naughty child, won’t you kneel down now and pray?” In the meantime she

made Joseph (asking if he wore trousers), with his foot raised to stamp

on the ground, and then came the kneeling figure—a good child now,

at last. A little of this capacity for illusion is sometimes found

among full-grown artists, and especially among the naïve religious

painters who are conscious of the divine indwelling as they make their

representations of religious subjects.

The consideration of plastic imitative play in its narrower sense

will occupy us but a short time. Von den Steinen’s explanation of

drawing, given above, will hardly apply here. The probable starting

point for such figures was the accidental resemblance of some outline

to weapons, implements, or ornaments. The child’s ready capacity for

illusion which is as likely to call a circular outline an umbrella as

a human head is not wanting in adults as well, and especially so among

primitive people. When he makes a dagger handle out of a reindeer horn,

or a necklace of various small objects, or adorns a clay vessel with

impressions, and enjoys doing these things, his hands thus rendered

skilful need but little help to make other images. Another possible

origin is in experimentation with plastic material, such as clay or

wax, which would naturally lead to moulding.

The first hypothesis is well illustrated by von den Steinen’s

description of the chain figures of the Bakaïri. He says, “As the

rhyme often suggests the thought, so an outline already familiar may

suggest a motive”; the meagre suggestions which satisfy savages in such

cases “is evident in most of the figures which adorn their necklaces,

strung between seeds, shells, and nuts. It matters not what is the

material—a bit of the spiral of a rose-coloured snail shell with an

irregular outline does duty as a crab; from the shell of the _Caramujo

branco_ (_Orthalicus melanostornus_) they cut birds and fishes;...

bits of green and black mottled stone are fishes when flat and birds

when rounded, and sometimes Nature is assisted in carrying out these

resemblances. Fruit, too, was used which bore an accidental resemblance

to some sort of bird.”[590]

But Brazilian plastic art includes the other type as well; they mould

figures in wax and in the edible clay which furnished their forefathers

with food. As a man held a lump of clay in his hand the impulse may

have been aroused by some accidental resemblance, and thus give rise in

a purely playful manner to the custom which von den Steinen has called

“only a skilful method of storing the material.... Black wax was most

beautifully moulded by the Mehinakú into excellent animal forms and

suspended around the neck or laid away in a basket until wanted.”[591]

That this was a playful habit is proved by the maize figures of the

same tribe. These were usually bird forms almost as large as turkeys,

and hung from the roof on long ropes, “A strange spectacle to the

traveller who thinks at once of idols or fetiches, but these fine birds

are in reality nothing but well-filled ears of corn in the natural

husks.”[592] We can not here go into the higher forms of primitive

sculpture, but it may be mentioned in passing that even such aboriginal

tribes as the Indians of central Brazil often make use of their plastic

skill for symbolic decoration. Thus the Mehinakú adorn the upper end of

their wooden spades with the carved head of a mud wasp, because they

too dig in the ground and throw up the dirt as the Indian does with his

tool.[593]

We must pass still more hurriedly over the plastic efforts of children,

which are of much less importance than their drawings, though among

the children of savages the disposition to attempt a rude sort of

sculpture is much more common than with us. Nachtigal relates that

the negro children of Runga formed rhinoceroses and elephants out of

the beautiful red clay which abounds there.[594] There are individual

instances of a similar kind among civilized children. Ricci has taken

some trouble to make a collection of such work by Italian children, and

finds it differs less from the efforts of savages than their drawing

does.[595] On the whole, however, this branch of art seems to be

comparatively little prized or pursued with the exception of making

snow men and some caricatures in wax, dough fruits, and the fashioning

in sand of gardens, streets, cities, tunnels, and forts which are all

about as much imitative play as production.

In conclusion I offer a few general remarks on imitation in

connection with representative art, where three forms of it can be

distinguished—objective, artistic, and subjective imitation. The first

consists, as we have seen, in repetition founded on sense-perception

and simple memory, while the last permits considerable deviation from

reality. The child and probably the savage prefers to produce from

memory.

Artistic imitation may be defined as the influence of copies produced

by other artists. It plays in art the same rôle as that which falls to

tradition in general culture, for without it the artistic genius would

have little advantage over the gifted savage; indeed, even with him

artistic imitation is of great importance. It is not alone the wish

to do what others have attained; it is also the _via regia_ to the

higher evolution of art. A stimulating task is to trace in history how

originality was won by copying. Baldwin’s little girl began to build a

church from blocks after a picture. When she has laid the foundation,

suddenly her face lights up and she begins to depart from the model.

On being reminded by her father that churches are not built in that

way she answers, “Oh, no; I am making an animal with a head and a tail

and four legs,” and, full of pride in her new discovery, she returns

to her work of art, which is no longer a church, but has been turned

into an animal.[596] We see here, as in a magnifying glass, the law

of progress. Not in random discharges but from real action comes the

new; and the action that leads to the new is not original, but must be

imitative.[597]

This imitative action must not only always have another artist’s

work as its model; here may enter our principle of subjective or

self-imitation, which, indeed, is more a physiological than a

psychological principle since it is no other than all-powerful habit

in its spontaneous form, the impulse to repeat.

Children best illustrate it, but the familiar saying that genius

consists in an infinite capacity for taking pains is a popular

expression of the fact that progress depends on indefatigable

perseverance. It is Baldwin’s persistent imitation again. And

self-imitation is as indispensable to progress as is the imitation of

others, acting in conjunction with the law of habit, according to which

the frequent use of an act tends to make it easy. The conservative

principle of imitation furnishes a basis for higher development by

supplying an incentive for the mechanical effort required by the first

laborious accomplishment of the task, as well as for the introduction

of new details and the application of effective variations. Here, too,

an example from child psychology clearly shows the coupling of new with

old habits. A child observed by Perez had learned to draw a locomotive,

and was so charmed with the accomplishment that he did not want to draw

anything else. One day his grandmother wanted him to make a portrait of

her, and what did the boy do but draw a locomotive with a first-class

carriage attached, and his grandmother’s head protruding from one of

the windows![598] In similar way the painting of landscape began in

history with little pieces of background piping out of figure pictures.

4. _Inner Imitation_

The conviction has long prevailed[599] among German students of

æsthetics that one of the weightiest problems of their science is

offered by that familiar process by which we put ourselves into

the object observed, and thus attain a sort of inward sympathy

with it. In France the same problem has been treated in a notable

manner by Jouffroy, who says, “Imiter en soi l’état extérieurement

manifeste de la nature vivante, c’est ressentir l’effet esthétique

fondamental.”[600] In this very complicated process we can distinguish

these leading characteristics: 1_a_. The mind conceives of the

experience of the other individual as if it were its own. 1_b_. We live

through the psychic states which a lifeless object would experience if

it possessed a mental life like our own. 2_a_. We inwardly participate

in the movements of an external object. 2_b_. We also conceive of

the motions which a body at rest might make if the powers which we

attribute to it were actual (the fluidity of form). 3. We transfer the

temper, which is the result of our own inward sympathy, to the object

and speak of the solemnity of the sublime, the gaiety of beauty, etc.

By including all these under the rather inadequate name of æsthetic

sympathy, and bearing in mind what we learned in the review of æsthetic

pleasure, we can not fall into the error of supposing that they

include the whole field; yet at the same time we must see that their

explanation involves not only its most difficult but also its most

important problem. Why is this?

The attempt might be made to answer this question entirely in terms

of the psychology of association, only we should then be forced to

designate processes as associational which do not at all come under

the original definition of the word—namely, processes of fusing or

blending, which is not the bringing of a succession of disparate ideas

into special relations, but rather a unifying process, in which the

after-effect of past experience and the present perception blends to an

inseparable synthesis.

I select, then, as an example, the latest utterance of Lipps on the

impression produced by a Doric column, citing only those points which

seem to meet our purpose. He speaks first of the mechanical method of

regarding the column and then continues: “But another element follows

this naturally. Mechanical events external to us are not the only

things in the world. There are events lying nearer to us in every sense

of the word since they take place within us; and these are similar or

analogous to the external events. Moreover, we have the disposition

to regard similar things from the same point of view, and this point

of view is determined preferably by the nearest object. Therefore we

compare what happens externally with what happens in or to ourselves

and judge of it according to the analogy of our own experience.”

After remarking that such a method of observation is implied in such

expressions as “strength,” “aspiration,” etc., as applied to a column,

Lipps goes on: “Our satisfaction is not of the general kind which

applies to the universal idea of strength, effort, activity. Every

mechanical event has its special character or its special manner of

fulfilment. This may be easier, more untrammelled, or more difficult,

and requiring the overcoming of more serious obstacles; it may require

greater or less expenditure of ‘force.’ All this reminds us of our own

inner processes and evokes those, not indeed identical in character,

but analogous. It presents to us an image of similar effort on our own

part, and with it the peculiar personal sensations which accompany the

act. The mechanical event which seems to fulfil itself ‘with ease’

incites us to an equally simple and expeditious act; the violent

expenditure of vigorous mechanical energy, to an exertion of our own

will power, to which is added the feeling of lightness and freedom

proper to a self-originated act, and in other cases the not less

agreeable feeling of our own strength.” Omitting what intervenes I add

the conclusion of the treatise: “From the conditions indicated there

results not, indeed, the entire æsthetic impression produced by a Doric

column, but a considerable part of it. The vigorous curves and spring

of such a pillar afford me joy by reminding me of those qualities in

myself and of the pleasure I derive from seeing them in another. I

sympathize with the column’s manner of holding itself and attribute to

it qualities of life because I recognise in it proportions and other

relations agreeable to me. Thus all enjoyment of form, and indeed

all æsthetic enjoyment whatsoever, resolves itself into an agreeable

feeling of sympathy.”[601]

Here we encounter the difficulty mentioned above. It is evident from

these extracts that this is a case of successive associations. We

are “reminded” of similar subjective processes, and the “idea” of

similar acts of our own is “evoked,” be they facile or strenuous. But

successive associations are not available as an element in æsthetic

enjoyment, as Lipps[602] goes on to say: “Moreover, all this takes

place without reflection. Just as we do not first see the pillar and

subsequently work out its mechanical interpretation, so the second,

personal interpretation, can not be said to follow the other. The

being of the column, as I perceive it, is necessitated by mechanical

causes which themselves appear to me to be from the standpoint of human

action.”[603] Then we have not a true image of our own deeds before us;

we are not actually “reminded,” for the process is one of simultaneous

fusion, in which the consequences of earlier experience unite with

sense-perception to effect a direct harmony. From this direct blending

at the instant of perception we see why, to the observer, the pillar

seems to hold itself “as I do when I brace myself and stand up

straight.”

Assuming that this simple presentation of the psychology of inner

sympathy furnishes the elements of an explanation, still, in my

opinion, the state of æsthetic enjoyment is not yet sufficiently

accounted for. The fusion processes described form part of a general

psychological fact, and it is impossible to complete an act of

apperception without such synthesis. The question must be answered

as to how æsthetic perception is differentiated as a particular

satisfaction from general apperception; and the answer brings us

directly to the idea of play. Take thunder, for example. On the ground

of the synthetic process, its roar makes, universally and naturally,

the impression of a mighty voice raised in anger. The child has that

impression when it frightens him; so has the savage man when he regards

it with religious awe. But neither feeling is on that account æsthetic;

that comes only when the hearer enjoys the emotional effect of the

phenomenon as such, rendered possible by the process of fusion; when

he has an independent, self-centred pleasure in this result—that is

to say, when he plays. The same remarks apply to the column. It is

self-evident that we can not think of its upward spring without calling

in our earlier experiences, but it seems to me to be just as apparent

that in æsthetic perception the impression is intentionally lingered

over only for the sake of its pleasure-giving qualities, i. e.,

playfully.

Further, I think it is certain that there is in the play of æsthetic

enjoyment a condition of consciousness analogous to that underlying

a special class of plays—namely, the experimental. The force of this

analogy has impelled various students of various lands, independently

of one another, to this common goal. It is, of course, only a

relationship of conditions of consciousness, not genuine identity;

but we may affirm this much—namely, that inner sympathy is at least

as closely connected with dramatic imitation as the latter is with

plastic imitation. If the dramatic begins with a mere motor reaction,

which tends more and more to identify itself with self-transference

into the condition of another being, then inner imitation appears as

but a further step toward spiritualizing the imitative impulse. When,

therefore, I designate æsthetic sympathy as a play of inner imitation I

believe I have correctly characterized the psychic attitude of æsthetic

enjoyment as far as it is based on the fusion processes.

But I must go a step further. So far we have had in mind only past acts

and their effects as the psychological precedent of such sympathy, and

herein lies, in my opinion, the inadequacy of the whole associative

method. The sympathy of an æsthetic nature possesses such warmth and

intimacy, and such progressive force, that the effects of former

experience, however indispensable, are not sufficient, as Volkelt,

Dilthey, Th. Ziegler, and A. Biese have justly remarked. Mere echoes

of the past can not bring about what I understand as the play of inner

imitation. On the strength of my experience I hold fast to inner

imitation as an actuality, and one connected with motor processes,

which bring it into much closer touch with external imitation than the

foregoing dissertation would indicate. I have intentionally made use

of the qualifications “in my opinion,” “in my experience,” etc. For,

theoretically at least, I must admit the possibility that persons may

exist for whom æsthetic enjoyment does not get beyond the stage here

indicated. All that follows relates to those only in whose æsthetic

pleasures motor accompaniments are apparent, whether subjects of

consciousness or inaccessible to the self-examiner.

In attempting to develop the main points of this fuller conception

of inner imitation, I first take up the analogy between the child’s

dramatic imitation and æsthetic sympathy.[604] The child playing with a

doll raises the lifeless thing temporarily to the place of a symbol of

life. He lends the doll his own-soul whenever he answers a question for

it; he lends to it his feelings, conceptions, and aspirations; he gives

to it the pretence of mobility by posing it in a manner that implies

movement, or by his simple fiat when he asserts that it has nodded,

or beckoned, or opened its mouth. Here the resemblance to æsthetic

sympathy is already strong, and is still further augmented by the

use of the child’s own body as the instrument of his mimic play. His

attitudes and positions are then symbolic. The boy who with the paltry

aid of a paper helmet and a stick to stride can identify himself with

the cavalry officer whom he imitates has the soul of a fighter. And

he can extend this power of symbolic imitation to inanimate things as

well; kneeling with his hands on the floor, he is a bench which easily

turns into a locomotive as soon as forward motion and the puffing sound

suggest it. We have here illustrated the power of illusion to convert

a mere symbol into the thing symbolized, entering fully into the

pretence and yet not confusing itself with reality, just as in æsthetic

sympathy. Thus imitation proves itself to be the author of the symbol.

This external imitation proclaims the inner. What, then, constitutes

the difference between the two, and how are we to define inner

imitation in the fuller sense in which it is used here? We have seen

that external imitation is at the same time inner sympathy, and the

external bodily movements are chiefly directed toward furtherance of

this and of the transference of self which accompanies it. But how is

it when external visible imitative movements are wanting? Is inner

sympathy to be conceived of as merely a brain process in which only

the recollection of past movements, attitudes, etc., is blended with

sense perception? By no means. There is still activity, and that in

the common sense of the word as it relates to motor processes. It is

manifested in various movements whose imitative character may not

be perceptible to others. In this instantaneous perception of the

movements actually in progress I find the central fact with which

blend, on the one hand, imitation of past experiences, and on the other

the perceptions of sense.

Inquiry concerning the complex movements of inner imitation is not yet

past its opening stages, but so much seems to be established—namely,

that by it are called forth movement and postural sensations

(especially those of equilibrium), light muscular innervation,

together with visual and respiratory movement, all of which are of

great importance. Movements of the eyes have been given special

attention by R. Vischer,[605] sensations of rest by Couturat.[606]

Wundt has made eye movements of general psychological interest, and S.

Stricker[607] has attempted to do the same for the muscular sensations

called forth by the central impulses (at the present stage, including

principally tactile sensations of the skin, as well as muscular and

joint sensations). Intensely interesting is the article by Vernon Lee

and Anstruther-Thomson on beauty and its contrary,[608] which quotes a

number of observers who, as much from practice as from the possession

of exceptional gifts, far transcend the limits attained by the average

man in self-observation. Couturat and Stricker advance the idea that

such movement processes, so far as they depend on mild muscular

contraction, are due to the imitative impulse.

Before adducing some examples, I must venture on one more observation.

It is not, of course, to be assumed that such external movements are

necessarily genuine copies of sense-perceptions. In the psychological

treatment of eye movements, for example, sufficient caution has

not been exercised, and consequently a false standard has arisen,

transcending the facts. Here we shall find a comparison with external

dramatic imitation play of great value, bearing in mind that the result

of the latter is a symbol, not a counterpart. When a boy has to cut

off his comrade’s head in dramatic play, a very soft blow with a stick

is sufficient to indicate execution with the sword of justice, and in

the same way and degree the movement of which we are speaking may be

symbolic. Suppose a man fancying a huge spiral imprinted on the wall

in front of him. If he remembers the motor processes he can reproduce

them at will; little movements of the eyes, little tensions of the

neck muscles and in the throat, together with breathing movements, are

useful and (at least in my own case) even indispensable, and yet there

is no really spiral motion—the symbol is sufficient.[609]

I now present a few examples. First, as regards the optical perception

of movement. “When I am in good physical condition,” says Stricker,

“and take my stand at some distance from an exercise ground so that

I can watch the company with ease but not catch the word of command,

I feel certain muscular sensations quite as strongly as if I stood

under the command and attempted to follow it. When the troop marches,

I keep time with them in the sensations of my lower limbs; when they

go through the arm exercise, I have quite intense muscular feelings

in my upper arm; when they turn, I feel the same in my back.” (B) The

following passage shows that the same individual can experience also

other symbolic sensations of movement: “From the exercise ground I

went to the theatre to see the gymnasts, and first watched one using

a springboard. At the moment when he leaped from it I had a distinct

sensation in my chest, and the feeling, too, of motion in the muscles

of my eyes.”[610] In poetic art inner imitation of movements must

also be given due weight.[611] Lessing’s requirements for a poet

depend largely on this, for on its subjective side poetic enjoyment

is connected with memory pictures, and movement is conspicuous in

these.[612]

All this is true in a higher degree of the enjoyment of musical

movement. Herder said once: “The passionate part of our nature

(τὸ θυμικόν) rises and falls, it throbs or glides softly. Now it sweeps us

along, now holds us back; it is now weak, now strong; its own movement,

its step, as it were, varies with every modulation, with every strong

accent and vanishes as the tone varies. Music strikes a chord in our

innermost nature.”[613] In all this we find not only the effect of

association, but actual motor processes in our own bodies, which extend

from the rhythmical movements, visible for others, to the most delicate

(and invisible) associations in the inner part of our body. The process

which I tried to characterize in the section on hearing-play is with

me connected with breathing movements and tensions of the throat and

mouth muscles, and is thus symbolic in both directions. Those who play

much on some instrument commonly find that with them the tension is of

those muscles which they most use—this is apt to be especially the case

in recalling a remembered melody. We must avoid a too free assumption

of “internal song,” as well as of throat movements. Baldwin says,[614]

“I am able with the greatest ease to hold aloud an ā sound at ć,

say, and at the same time cause a whole tune—say Yankee Doodle—to run

its course ‘in my ear.’” I, too, can do this, though not with ease; the

remembered tune is literally “in the head”—that is to say, I have the

sensations of movement which represent this melody clearly in my mind,

where they are difficult to locate, but are actual sensations, not mere

memories. I can observe this process to better advantage by holding

my breath and drumming on the table, hearing a melody in the rhythmic

movement. These instances, however, do not clear up the undeniable

contrast between an acoustic and a motor melody, particularly as in

the first, motor accompaniments are entirely wanting. This is probably

the case in a much higher degree for æsthetic enjoyment than for mere

recollection.

I pass finally to the consideration of the æsthetic impression of

objects at rest, giving first two examples from the article already

cited, by Vernon Lee and Anstruther-Thomson, who seem to stand aside

altogether from the conflict raging among our own students of æsthetics

and psychology at present devoting themselves to this subject. They

are more under the influence of the Lange-James sensation theory, in

the pursuance of which they have little in common with the theory of

symbolism as advanced here, and do not even make use of the term inner

imitation. Yet the fact of it leads them to the expression “to mime”

in attempting to characterize æsthetic perception. Their observations

undoubtedly transcend the normal (particularly in motor types), and

in some instances practice comes to the aid of natural endowment,

while auto-suggestion occasionally plays a part. These extreme cases,

however, may serve to call the reader’s attention to the normal

conditions, which are not so obvious.

The first example relates to the inspection of a jar. “Here is a jar

equally common in antiquity and in modern peasant ware. Looking at this

jar one has a specific sense of a whole. One’s bodily sensations are

extraordinarily composed, balanced, correlated in their diversity. To

begin with, the feet press on the ground, while the eyes fix the base

of the jar. Then one accompanies the _lift up_, so to speak, of the

body of the jar by a _lift up_ of one’s own body; and one accompanies

by a slight sense of downward pressure of the head the downward

pressure of the widened rim on the jar’s top. Meanwhile, the jar’s

equal sides bring both lungs into equal play; the curve outward of the

jar’s two sides is simultaneously followed by an inspiration as the

eyes move up to the jar’s widest point. Then expiration begins, and

the lungs seem closely to collapse as the curve inward is followed

by the eyes, till, the narrow part of the neck being reached, the

ocular following of the widened-out top provokes a short inspiration.

Moreover, the shape of the jar provokes movement of balance, the left

curve a shifting on to the left foot, and _vice versa_. A complete

and equally distributed set of bodily adjustments has accompanied the

ocular side of the jar; this totality of movements and harmony of

movements in ourselves answers to the intellectual fact, of finding

that the jar is a harmonious whole.”[615]

Now an example of the influence of attention in the observation of

plastic form: “We can not satisfactorily focus a stooping figure like

the Medicean Venus if we stand before it bolt upright and with tense

muscles, nor a very erect and braced figure like the Apoxyomenos if we

stand before it humped up and with slackened muscles. In such cases the

statue seems to evade our eye, and it is impossible to realize its form

thoroughly; whereas, when we adjust our muscles in imitation of the

tenseness or slackness of the statue’s attitude, the statue immediately

becomes a reality to us.”[616]

It is easy to turn such passages into ridicule (and there are some much

stranger in the article), but the fact is that they are only extreme

expressions of actual elements in all the motor forms of æsthetic

enjoyment. But the authors have not grasped the fact of symbolism, and

they stress too much the sensations of movement, just as Sergi, for

example, has done in his Dolera e Piacere. When the scholar in Riehl’s

Burg Neideck, on his first sight of an extended plain, had the feeling

of being himself widened out, this effect was in all probability due to

sensations produced by breathing movements. Yet this is not in itself

the whole satisfaction, but rather a mere motor symbol which satisfies

the imitative impulse, just as the external suggestion is responded

to by dramatic imitation, or the little motions of the body in the

phantastic visions of the dream.

To answer the question of how this play of inner imitation originates,

it must be borne in mind that voluntary external imitation must

always be preceded by a stadium of adjustment (or “Einstellung”).

So it is especially in childhood, where this prodromal stage is

often of long duration. And what are here the objects of the child’s

imitation?—sounds, gestures, attitudes. Now sounds, gestures, and

attitudes are also the very objects of _inner_ imitation in æsthetic

pleasure.

In concluding, we are confronted by the question whether this

faculty of inner imitation belongs exclusively to a special group of

individuals—namely, the distinctly motor type. If this is so, then

a very important part of the æsthetic satisfaction is confined to a

fraction of the human race. One hesitates to affirm that we of the

motor type labour under the disadvantage of taking intense pleasure in

a state which is lacking in physical resonance, so to speak; and yet,

if this is the case, we still can boast that fusion with past processes

which after all leaves the plus sign in our favour. I am convinced,

however, that no such sharp distinction of types is warranted by

the facts, the difference being as a rule one of quantity or degree

of individual endowment. Ability to observe such movements in one’s

self is no criterion. There may be individuals with very strong inner

imitative movements who are unable to separate the motor element from

the _tout ensemble_. To illustrate the difficulty: A man who glances

suddenly to the right imparts to surrounding objects an apparent motion

to the left (this may help to account for the “fluidity of form”), yet

to many it is impossible to get a clear perception of this, even under

the most favourable conditions. In the same way there are probably many

who deserve to be reckoned with the motors in æsthetic enjoyment who

are yet unable to make their own movements a matter of observation.

IV. SOCIAL PLAYS

Much discrimination is required in the attempt to single out a special

group of social plays proper to our subject. I am, however, well

aware that it is an essential feature in any system of play, and that

Baldwin is quite right when he says in his valuable preface to The

Play of Animals, “Finally, I should like to suggest that a possible

category of ‘Social Plays’ might be added to Groos’s classification.”

The great difficulty is that it is well-nigh impossible to make

separate observations on them as a distinct class, for as a rule the

social impulse furnishes the incentive to the special games which we

have considered. To take a familiar example: Society chat is a social

play _par excellence_, and yet the indulgence in this element of it

appeals to consciousness as but a vague and undefined satisfaction

compared with the influence of the impulses to combat and to courtship.

For this reason the present section must be of a somewhat different

character from the foregoing ones. It must be theoretic, and thus form

a connecting link with the second part of the book.

In the sphere of social play we still find ourselves in close touch

with imitation. Though Tarde’s formula, “La société c’est l’imitation,”

has the one-sidedness characteristic of an epigram, it is an

unquestionable fact that this impulse is of fundamental significance

in the origination and preservation of social conditions. Uniformity

of conduct and sentiment, without which social co-operation would be

impossible, is preserved mainly by imitation, and, what is more, by

its involuntary form, as illustrated in the infectiousness of such

simple acts as coughing and gaping. But, before going into this, I must

emphasize some phases of the social impulse which are not identical

with imitation, and whose value to play is easily demonstrated.

It may be recalled that in our inquiry into the origin of the imitative

impulse the question was raised whether its resemblance to instinct

might not be explained by its relation to the genuine instincts of race

affinity and the production of calls and warning cries. The physical

and mental association common to men and gregarious animals seems to

me to depend largely on these two relatively simple instincts, those of

physical association and communication. Both are extremely important

for the establishment of the family, and the view that the social

factor has nothing to do with the family is, in my opinion, far too

extreme. Ants and bees may serve them for illustrations, but in the

life of herds and tribes the primal relation between mother and child

seems to me the starting point from which the need of _association_ and

_communication_ has extended.[617]

Our inquiry then will proceed from need of bodily association or the

herding instinct as a starting point. However this impulse may have

developed phylogenetically, ontogenetically the child’s associative

needs are at first satisfied by the family, and almost entirely by the

mother; he is, as a rule, relatively late in turning his attention

to a social sphere. “Before the third or fourth year,” says Madame

Necker de Saussure, with some exaggeration, “the child is happy only

with his elders. His needs, his pleasures, and the certainty with

which he counts on our protection are all in our keeping. Other

children interest him for a time, but soon tire him, and their little

tempers excite his own. In his inability to cope with such situations

he turns again to the grown people.”[618] Although this is put too

strongly,[619] its essential truth is well known; indeed, Curtmann

and Flashar for that very reason deprecate the extension of the

child’s social circle at too early an age, and Franz Kübel says, in

Süddeutschen Schulboten (1875): “Because the life of an eremite, be he

scholar, æsthetic, or what not, is a mistake, why should all of life

necessarily be social? Why should the bud be forced to open too early?

Why should the sphere of individual life be so soon widened to take in

love for all? It seems to me indisputable that the early education of

a child should be carried on in the family circle, and also that there

is a dangerous tendency to arouse social impulses too early.”[620]

Indeed, we must admit that experimentation can not have its due effect

if the child is introduced too early to a wider circle, and that the

strong stimulus of social life tends to overshadow and interfere with

the development of family life when allowed to exert its full force on

the very young. Just as with children who are kept too much at home,

overweening family feeling interferes with their progress in society

and hampers them through life, so, on the other hand, too much society

weakens the parental relation. There should be a certain equilibrium of

influence, as in all other departments of culture, to supply the most

favourable conditions in the struggle for existence.

Returning from this digression, we remark first that there can be no

doubt of the value of social games in preparing incipient men and women

for later life. “Le società infantile,” says Colozza, “sono società

di guoco.”[621] The demand for identification with some social group

finds its satisfaction in this way, and this satisfaction rests, as

we have seen, on the broad foundation underlying other instincts,

especially those relating to combativeness. I merely mention the direct

effect of the impulse for association, the agreeable consciousness of

being “in the swim.” Among animals this feeling is manifested rather

as a reaction from the annoyance of separation from the herd, yet the

gregarious animal pasturing with its kind or carrying food to them may

be filled with a cheering sense of security such as we experience when

established in a cosy corner at the club. Be that as it may, the child

at any rate, as soon as it is old enough to make the acquaintance of

other children, is filled with eager desire to be wherever his comrades

are assembled for whatever purpose. I need only hint at his rage and

despair when he sees through a window that the “other fellows” are

collecting, while he for some reason can not go out.

These early manifestations of the social instinct are too simple

to require much illustration. We all recognise them, and they are

frequently displayed by adults as well. Holidays spent in simple

playful indulgence of the gregarious instinct are of the greatest

value for the collective social life of mankind. Here as elsewhere

the practice theory is applicable to adults, as two extremely diverse

instances will illustrate most satisfactorily. One is the difficulty

of keeping up religious community life when the festival character is

allowed to lapse; even when there remains enough association of the

votaries themselves to constitute a gratification of the associative

impulse, yet the abandonment of holiday festivities undoubtedly has a

marked effect. The tamer a religious observance becomes the larger the

proportions of lukewarm adherents. Many sects have a clear perception

of this, and it accounts for the fact that some of them employ methods

not far removed from the practices of savages. This brings us to

the second instance—namely, the importance of festive gatherings

to savage peoples. If our owners, our own peasantry, scattered in

families through the rural districts, are in danger of losing their

social feelings when deprived of religious or secular festivals, the

necessity is yet much greater with primitive men. Apart from warfare,

this is about their only means of association as tribes or clans. It

is valuable, too, in connection with and preparatory to their fights.

Among the Weddas of Ceylon, who “have not yet acquired the art of war,”

and are very undeveloped socially, we find only feeble suggestions

of the festival. From our noble cathedrals, our concert halls and

theatres, and other places of amusement, converging lines lead directly

back to the festal huts of savages. From these, however, women are as a

rule strictly excluded.

Finally, I remark that a playful motive is often discernible in the

formation of the multifarious clubs for the advancement of some worthy

object in this age of abounding culture. We all know persons for whom

an absorbing interest in the ostensible object of the club would be out

of the question but for the good company. The mere fact of being one

of a group is satisfaction enough to the gregarious instinct, and the

playfulness of this condition can scarcely be questioned.

Turning now to the wider social impulses to which these simple

manifestations are related, we must first notice the voluntary

subordination of the individual which is so essential a feature. In

the relation of parent and child there could hardly be any training,

and certainly no such thing as education, without this element. After

dwelling on the child’s spirit of opposition, Sully gives in his

Studies in Childhood the contrary picture in a series of incidents

designed to show that there is yet in the childish soul something “on

the side of law,” and goes on to remark that “it is worth while asking

whether, if the child were naturally disposed to look on authority as

something wholly hostile, he would get morally trained at all.”[622]

While this is true, still the contrary, rebellious spirit is developed

by the parental relation, and we may see voluntary subordination much

better illustrated by going on the street with the child and noticing

his behaviour with his playmates. The blind obedience accorded the

leader of a little band is calculated to fill parents and teachers with

envy. Here the social impulse is supreme in the demand for association

and classification which governs and directs society. The same relation

exists among animals between the herd and its leader, and no orderly

association of men could exist without it. As simple compulsion is not

enough with children, so with adults discipline is insufficient. The

leader’s command must be met by an inward disposition to obey in the

interests of the whole. The heads of political parties who thunder

invectives against the “slaves” and “dumb cattle” in other parties are

yet considerably disconcerted when their own followers display too

little of the disposition for subordination.

The common fighting plays of children markedly exhibit this voluntary

submission to a leader, less known, I think, in regulation games than

in the many contests which a crowd of children will naturally fall

into when a few belligerent spirits are present; when there is a

trick to be played on schoolmates or janitor, an orchard to plunder,

some unpopular person to annoy by breaking his windows or otherwise

damaging his property—in these escapades the leader’s word has absolute

authority, and the most docile children will commit deeds in blind

obedience which fill their parents with amazement and horror. The

influence of example is a factor not to be overlooked, but it is not by

any means all; more influential still is the _esprit de corps_ after

the plot is once hatched. Formerly, when children were given more

freedom in this direction, schoolboy leagues were of great importance,

but even now their associations for contest play a weighty part in

youthful life; there they learn to see how common peril strengthens

the bond of union and enjoins submission to the leader. It is an

illustration in miniature of the influence of war on the evolution of

society.

This leads to the observation that play is instrumental in teaching

children submission to law as well as to a leader. Thus H. Schiller

says very truly of gymnastic exercises: “They promote not only presence

of mind, dexterity, skill, and readiness, but furnish as well valuable

training for society. Law and limitation are here self-imposed by the

players, and he finds them again in the bounds which he strives to

transcend.”[623] Since gymnastic and belligerent games afford exercise

chiefly to males, we trace here an interesting distinction between

the sexes. It seems that those manifestations of the social impulse

relating to subordination are not pursued by women so energetically nor

in the same way as with men. Woman is the guardian of good form, but as

a rule she will not subordinate herself to rigorous law. I think any

customs agent will bear me out in this statement from his observation

of the behaviour of travellers. This probably results from a difference

in the instinctive equipment of the sexes; fighting impulses, which are

strongly developed in the males, further the social ones by reason of

their imperative requirement of association. This is apparent in the

exercises referred to by Schiller, and is materially advanced by the

practice which play affords. The success of American women in their

movement for emancipation is largely furthered by their participation

with men in various sports and the consequent better development of

their social capacities.

I conclude these remarks on voluntary subordination with some reference

to the origin of punishment. It is commonly referred to the principle

of vengeance, but, though feelings of personal grievance and revenge

may be closely involved in its origin and development, they can not

entirely account for the institution of punishment. Even the play of

children clearly distinguishes between personal revenge and social

chastisement. The infraction of the unwritten laws of our familiar

games arouses a spontaneous and general sentiment against the offender

which does indeed resemble the demand for vengeance, but stresses more

the idea of social injury. What urges to the chastisement of the liar,

the coward, and the betrayer is a righteous indignation which results

from outraged social feelings, and the desire to expel the offender

from the group. This was apparent in the early tribes from which all

civilized peoples have developed. Justice is as old as social humanity,

and if it can be derived at all from personal revenge this could have

been possible only as far as offences between man and man were regarded

as offences against the community as a whole.

Social sympathy next demands our attention as connected with the demand

for association, and for the sake of brevity I include in the term not

merely the inward sentiment, but also the _émotion tendre_ and the

readiness to lend a helping hand to other members of the same group.

It is perhaps best defined by the expression “good fellowship,” which

is everywhere current. Play has a significant part in it as well with

children as with adults. I introduced a passage in The Play of Animals

on the actions of some young foxes who amused themselves playing

together until some occasion arose for strife. Then, one of them being

bitten so that blood flowed, the others fell upon and devoured him;

and I then remarked that “the good comradeship of young animals is

first of all a play comradeship. It exists in play when aside from the

conditions of the play there is little sympathetic feeling.” This is

to a great degree applicable to humanity as well. Apart from relations

of actual friendship which are deeper than simple comradeship, we find

among individuals very little genuine interest and kindliness. It is

only when people are members of the same social group that they learn

to regard one another with the friendly feeling which is necessary

for effective association. Social sympathy is apt to be but a wider

egoism, and the identification of the individual I with the social

whole a slightly more circuitous route to self-advancement. When party

lines are obliterated the interest subsides, as many have discovered

who counted on personal friendship as a result of social sympathy.

Further consideration of the value of this comradeship, however, shows

it to be indispensable to the formation and maintenance of society,

and that the school in which it is developed is furnished by play.

Children scarcely manifest it in any other connection; as they grow

older they may form friendships independently of their common play, but

as a rule their comradeship is that of play. With adults the case is

not very different, for even when they associate for a serious purpose

banquets and other playful features are considered indispensable for

strengthening the bond. These festivities, it is true, have their root

in the common need for amusement, but their practical value consists

in the impetus they give to social sympathy, and their indirect

furtherance of effective association.

As the associative impulse which we have made our starting point

primarily promotes external connections, but is attended with various

far-reaching consequences, and finally results in the demand for

communication, so this last, from serving first the narrow unit of the

family, brings about the inner spiritual union of the social group. The

chief means which serves this impulse of humanity is language.[624]

Although this communication does serve a practical purpose from its

very inception, there are still many playful manifestations of it.

Compayré offers an observation which may be regarded as a prelingual

illustration of this. It records a sort of dialogue between a child,

still unable to speak, and his elder brother. “Pendant quelques minutes

c’est une alternance ininterrompue, là de mots et de phrases nettement

articulés, ici de petits cris confus.”[625] Older children, too, often

show the same thing in their play with dolls and other toys as well

as toward persons and animals. We sometimes sigh for a limit to the

unmeaning gabble which the child apparently enjoys for its own sake.

Similar observations have been made on adults, though here as with

children it is difficult to draw the line between play and earnest.

So far as the object is to instruct others or make a good impression

and thus improve one’s own social standing, the act is serious,

but it oftener wears the aspect of merely playful self-exhibition.

And, finally, when an unimportant piece of news is passed about

and talked over “just for something to say,” we have an instance

of pure playfulness, since a satisfaction of the social impulse is

sought without serious aim and purely for its own sake. The teas and

Kaffeeklätzchen so affected by women are of a similar character.

Without attempting to analyze too closely the style of conversation

prevailing on such occasions, we venture to say that a universal desire

for expression is conspicuous. This is certainly the fact in the social

gatherings of men and of society in general. Ordinary society chat is a

social play.

There are other phases of conversational intercourse, however,

which are more germane to our present purpose, such, for example,

as the invention of special forms of speech which are selections

from tentative efforts by the process of exclusion. The great social

importance of a common language thus finds expression in play.

Reference has already been made to the fact that children coin

words—that is, they make use of sounds independently discovered by

experimentation. Sometimes several children will construct a sort of

secret language in this way. The remarkable case referred to by H. Hale

of a pair of devoted twins who did not learn first the language spoken

around them, but one all their own, in which they conversed with ease

and fluency, is not, however, an instance in point, since there was

evidently no play about it. Yet children do form such a secret system

sometimes in play. Colonel Higginson mentions two girls about thirteen

years old who made a language for their own amusement. They wrote

about two hundred words of it in a book. Thus “Bojiwassis” denoted the

half-anxious, half-resolute feeling that precedes taking a leap, and

“Spygri” the pride in having accomplished it. “Pippadolify” expressed

the stiff manner of walking of the young officers in Washington.[626]

This well illustrates childish versatility in word coinage. Von

Martius, Peschel, and others attribute the rapid transformations in

the language of savages to the influence of children, whose faulty

reproduction of words learned from their parents is adopted by the

latter.[627] Also original creations arise in the intercourse of

parent and child. We have already spoken of the imitative sounds that

come into a language in this way, and childish experimentation may be

equally influential. “Papa” and “mamma” are evidences that this is

sometimes true, and many other words may have had a similar origin.

But, turning again to our subject proper, we find that the tendency

of a social group to distinguish itself by its manner of speaking is

widespread among adults.[628] It can not always be called playful,

however, as some serious aim is often had in view, as in the code of

criminals and the passwords of secret societies, but the technicalities

of special callings and professions are often clearly playful, and

are especially affected by the newcomer who is impressed with the

advantages of belonging to the set. With what zeal does the newly

initiated sportsman set himself to learn the vocabulary of the chase!

With what unction does the freshman repeat the latest student’s slang!

Conan Doyle, in his Rodney Stone, has given us an admirable picture

of the affected speech of the English dandy at the beginning of the

nineteenth century, and the euphuism of Shakespeare’s time is another

instance. Pleasure and pride in belonging to a certain class or set are

often manifested in such peculiarities.

But impulse for communication may assume other forms, as in the cases

when we found it of so great value in courtship under the form of

self-exhibition. And it has also, as Baldwin[629] points out, a more

general social significance. While our personal peculiarities are

first brought out in our intercourse with others, we at once become

conscious, on the other hand, of an impulse to display them in order to

gain influence. Satisfaction with one’s own achievements is attained

only when these have gained social recognition. Self-exhibition plays

an important part, too, in the pleasure we derive from collective

games. The rivalry which we have studied from the standpoint of the

fighting instinct takes a more pacific form, as the pleasure of finding

one’s importance testified to by imitation on the part of others. This

is not mere exultation in victory over others, but takes higher ground,

since the sense of superiority which it engenders is dependent on their

support.

When the display of one’s excellences thus transcends verbal expression

it results from the highest forms of social intercourse, from that

devotion of time and energy to society which constitutes the vocation

of the social leader. It is the very opposite to that voluntary

subordination to a leader of which we have spoken, and yet true

social leadership also is founded on just such subordination. The

aspirant for its honours must so merge himself in the society that

its aggrandizement shall mean his own—a signal proof of the force of

the social impulse. Whether the task is great or small, the ruling of

an empire or the leadership of a club, the principle is the same, and

consequently the social plays of children are enlightening. Even here,

forceful, active, inventive natures quickly attain the mastery and the

difference is apparent between the merely violent, who think only of

their own advancement, and the born leader who makes the interests of

society his own, who is ready to answer for the crowd, and is found

in the front line in times of danger and will suffer no injustice to

any of his following. Such leadership is possible only where there is

the capacity for identifying his own will and conviction with those of

the rest, thus effectuating the groups’ subordination. The “magnetism”

of those who succeed as leaders depends on the presence and force of

this faculty; they must have not mere strength of will, but the kind of

will adapted for fusion with the common will for the attainment of its

social ends.

In concluding these observations on the associative principle, I

must notice the social side of artistic activity. It may be said in

general that artistic production fulfils an important function in

giving universal pleasure. H. Rutgers Marshall tries to establish

the existence of “the blind instinct to produce art works.”[630] The

attempt, however, to analyze the social tendencies operative in the

creative artist will disclose the two last-mentioned forms of the

communication impulse. The artist longs to set forth with all his

power that which fills his soul, and to make objective representation

of it for his own benefit and that of others, and at the same time

win, by this unfolding of his nature, influence over the souls of

others—giving that he may gain. This motive is not equally strong in

all art, yet to a certain degree Richepin’s passionate words apply to

any such work: “C’est tout moi qui ruissela dans ce livre.... Voici

mon sang et ma chair, bois et mange!” and every great artist strives

for mastery over the emotions of others. The genius may, it is true,

create only for himself or a choice few, or when his work is finished

he may conceive a distaste for it or not concern himself at all about

it, yet on the whole it can not be denied that the controlling motive

(half conscious, it may be) is the desire to gain mastery by means of

his art. Gildemeister rightly says: “Publicity is the breath of art.

Dilettantism may be confined to the studio or the salon, art must speak

to the people.”[631] Since it is directly through these social aims,

however, that æsthetic production diverges from play, we need not

linger on the subject.

We now take up the last of the social influences which we had to

consider, the powerful agency of imitation, and more especially such

involuntary imitation as is manifested in the infectiousness of

coughing, gaping, etc. Its influence is universal. Espinas, Souriau,

Tarde, Sighele, Le Bon, and others have treated the problem of such

mass suggestion, and Baldwin contributes a valuable chapter full of

critical acumen on the Theory of Mob Action, in his Social and Ethical

Interpretations. To introduce the subject I give two examples, one

from animal psychology, the other from anthropology, illustrating the

extreme phenomena of mass suggestion. Hudson gives us the following:

“This was on the southern pampas at a place called Gualicho, where I

had ridden for an hour before sunset over a marshy plain where there

was still much standing water in rushy pools, though it was at the

height of the dry season. This whole plain was covered with an endless

flock of chakars, not in close order, but scattered about in pairs and

small groups. In this desolate spot I found a small rancho, inhabited

by a gaucho and his family, and I spent the night with them. About

nine o’clock we were eating our supper in the rancho when suddenly the

entire multitude of birds covering the marsh for miles around burst

forth into a tremendous evening song. It is impossible to describe

the effect of this mighty rush of sound.... One peculiarity was that

in this mighty noise, which sounded louder than the sea thundering

on a rocky coast, I seemed to be able to distinguish hundreds, even

thousands, of individual voices. Forgetting my supper, I sat motionless

and overcome with astonishment while the air and even the frail rancho

seemed to be trembling in that tempest of sound. When it ceased, my

host remarked with a smile: ‘We are accustomed to this, señor; every

evening we have this concert.’ It is well worth the ride of a hundred

miles to hear this demonstration.”[632] Mediæval dancing may furnish an

example from human life. At Freiburg in Switzerland, in 1346, before

the castle of Graf Greyerz, a dance was practised which began with

simple movements. They gathered strength, however, like an avalanche,

and spread through the entire country. Uhland has made this dance the

subject of a poem, which may be paraphrased as follows:

“The youngest maiden, slender as a stalk of maize,

Seized the count’s hand and drew him in the ring.

They danced through the village, where file succeeded file,

They danced across the meadows, they danced through the wood,

To where, far across the mountains, the silvery sounds rang out.”

_Marrentanz._

These, as I have said, are extreme manifestations of mass suggestion,

and should not be given too much weight in explaining social

development. “The loss of identity and social continence,” says

Baldwin, “on the part of the individual, when he is carried away by

a popular movement, is well struck off by the common saying that he

has ‘lost his head.’ This is true; but then he regains his head and

is ashamed that he lost it. His normal place in society is determined

by the events of that part of his life in which he keeps his head.

And the same is true of the events in the life of the social group

as a whole.”[633] Yet these forms of suggestion which border on the

pathological are but exaggerations of social qualities indispensable

to the race. Had we not the inborn impulse to imitate movements which

sweep through a mob, great occasions would never find us ready with

great actions. The magic power of mass suggestion is the indispensable

complement of the social leader’s talents, and consequently is closely

related to our familiar voluntary subordination. Tarde even regards

obedience as a special case of imitation, and to strengthen his

position reminds us that command begins with example. With monkeys,

horses, dogs, etc., the leader sets the example by performing the

particular act, and the others imitate him.[634] Yet I am quite

confident that voluntary subordination is not identical with imitation.

Even with animals the leader is the strongest, most skilful, and

generally the most intelligent of the herd, and obedience appears as

imitation perhaps, but not of the ordinary kind; rather of one who by

means of the force of his individuality compels subjection through

fear, respect, and love, or the compounding of these. The need of the

weak to lean on the strong does indeed lead to imitation, but is not

identical with it.

Moreover, it seems to me that an explanation of mass suggestion can not

be arrived at by means of the imitative impulse without the assumption

that voluntary subordination works with it; that blending of fear,

respect, and attraction is not necessarily confined to a single leader,

but may be directed to the whole group, and, indeed, without such a

sentiment the leader’s influence would be much crippled. Those whose

minds are made up not to go with the herd (the partisans of another

faction, for instance) will display little imitative inclination so

long, at least, as this determination is clearly defined. But when

the personality of the leader and the imposing and alluring aspects

of the mass combine their effects, the imitative impulse assumes its

full force. The result is quite similar to that obtained in hypnosis,

with which it is often compared, and in the manifestations of which,

in spite of the important rôle played by imitation, voluntary

subordination is indispensable for the operation of suggestion.

If now we inquire as to how these processes take effect in play, we

find the practice theory applicable to adults in a greater degree even

than to children; for we are at once confronted by the importance of

festivals as mentioned above and again impressing itself upon us here.

For the further division of our subject I distinguish between general

acts and general inner imitation, in the former of which motor and in

the latter emotional suggestion is conspicuous.

The desire to act in conjunction with the social group finds manifold

expression in the play of children. “Any one who watches the games of

a set of boys in the school yard or in the streets,” says Baldwin,

“will see that it is only a small part of the moves of the game which

are provided for with any consistent or well-planned plot or scheme.

The game is begun, and then becomes, in great measure, the carrying

out of a series of _coups et contre-coups_ on the part of the leaders

among the players; the remainder following the dictation and example of

the few. When the leader whoops, the crowd also whoop; when he fights,

they fight. All this social practice is most valuable as discipline in

serious social business.”[635] Such effects of general imitation are

prominent in most social fighting plays, but we shall confine ourselves

to some children’s games in which acting in common seems to be itself

the principal aim. Here we are met by the fact that in its last

analysis such play is referable to adult imitation—that is to say, they

are handed down to the children. A simple kind of play, which clearly

reveals a social character, is that in which the children imitate all

sorts of movements made by the leader. For example, take the familiar

one in which the children dance around, hand in hand, singing:

“Adam had seven sons, seven sons had Adam,

They ate not, they drank not, they looked in his face

And did just so”;[636]

whereupon they all stop, the leader stepping to the centre of the

circle and making all sorts of motions—clapping hands, bowing, bending,

lifting his arms, sawing, scrubbing, fiddling, sneezing, coughing,

laughing, crying, etc.—all of which are repeated by the other children.

This same song was probably sung by adults in the Easter processions

which were derived from the mediæval pest dances, but even so their

origin is not yet reached. The following description by Svoboda

strongly recalls the play of children: “Dancing is the greatest

pleasure of the Nikobars; it is very solemn and slow. A place is

cleared for it among the huts; the leader steps out, and first of all

marks a great circle, while each man lays his hand on his neighbour’s

shoulder. The leader raises the tune, making a step, now left, now

right, swinging his free leg. All keep their eyes fixed on him and

mimic what he does, sinking on their knees, sitting on their heels, and

then making a grotesque leap, or stepping backward and forward. All

this is repeated stiffly, mechanically, and without any spirit, but

constantly accompanied by a nasal song, until late in the night.”[637]

Further we may notice dancing games of children accompanied by song.

In looking through a collection of them like that of Böhme, one is

astonished at their variety as well as the remarkable and often

apparently meaningless songs that accompany them. Many are of the

opinion that they date from the middle ages, while others trace them

back to the old German religious dances along with a cycle of songs

in celebration of the goddess Freija. As a rule, proofs are wanting

in both directions, and there is a choice of opinions between them.

If, for example, the common stooping at the end of a stanza appears to

be a survival of some religious ceremony, it may just as probably be

the duck, duck, duck of animal dances of prehistoric times. Rochholz

has actually derived a Swiss form of the song from such mimicry of

animals. The obscurity of many verses is caused by the frequent

introduction of new subjects. In one case the ceremony of taking the

veil is dramatically gone through with, and J. Bolle states that this

originated in a thoroughly frivolous dance of adults. Indeed, the

intermeddling of adults is constantly to be reckoned with, as in the

case of a shepherd’s song, where “Adam” is substituted for “Amor” with

evident ironical intent.

In regard to such games of children the following question is a

pertinent one: How does it happen that the social plays whose models

are formed in the dancing of men or of both sexes are practised chiefly

by girls? If we think back to our own childhood we shall find that

while little fellows do take part in such games, older boys regard them

as unmanly and unworthy of them. I suspect that in earlier times, when

the men indulged in them, the boys gladly followed suit, as is quite

generally the case among savages now.

A final word on children’s festivals, in which the social significance

of play is most clearly displayed. Take the most familiar example,

the school picnic: if only a handful of children go for an outing

with a teacher they are not particularly delighted, but when the whole

school goes their pleasure is increased more than proportionately to

their numbers. They are excited and joyous, and every expression of

pleasure seems multiplied by a many-voiced echo, and, until they grow

tired, all show a readiness to obey the spirit of good comradeship.

Such an occasion bears all the essential marks of a genuine festa,

with its feeling of belonging to the social group, subordination to

the good of the whole and to the leader who represents it, sympathetic

participation, and satisfaction of the associative impulse in its

various forms, the attraction which belongs to actions and enjoyments

in common with others, and finally the festal board which makes a play

of eating and drinking. Some of the festivals of children, too, have

been handed down from the sports of adults. A Swabian dance that was

formerly performed by the salt refiners now belongs to the children,

who dress for it in the costume of the craft. But most such holidays

have a much earlier origin in pagan feasts, as in the case of Easter,

Mayday, Whitsuntide, midsummer, etc. I take as my solitary example

the Heidelberg Sommertagsfest, in which a portable pyramid of straw

represents conquered winter, and one bedecked with fresh green is

triumphant summer. The attendant children carry wands trimmed with

eggs, pretzels, and gay streamers, and sing as they go:

“Strieh, Strah, Stroh,

Der Sommerdag is do.

Der Sommer un der Winder,

Des sinn Geschwisterkinder.

“Summerdag Stab aus,

Blost dem Winter die Auge aus.

Strieh, Strah, Stroh,

Der Sommerdag is do.”

This ancient mythological festival, which survives with wonderful

vitality among children in the Palatinate and some other localities,

threatened to become extinct in Heidelberg until some one seriously

undertook its restoration. It is an inspiriting sight when the fine old

streets are the scenes of the processions of numerous summer and winter

pyramids, and thousands of children in holiday attire, carrying the

gay wands and merrily singing the old song. It can not be questioned

that feelings of fellowship and attachment to home are heightened and

deepened by the practice of such customs.

Turning now to adults, whose festivals furnish the models for these

childish ones, I can not better illustrate the importance of imitation

on such occasions than by repeating the striking passage quoted from

James in the Play of Animals. In concluding a passage on play he says:

“There is another sort of human play, into which higher æsthetic

feelings enter. I refer to the love of festivities, ceremonies, and

ordeals, etc., which seems to be universal in our species. The lowest

savages have their dances, more or less formally conducted. The various

religions have their solemn rites and exercises, and civic and military

powers symbolize their grandeur by processions and celebrations of

divers sorts. We have our operas and parties and masquerades. An

element common to all these ceremonial games, as they are called, is

the excitement of concerted action, as one of an organized crowd. The

same acts, performed with a crowd, seem to mean vastly more than when

performed alone. A walk with the people on a holiday afternoon, an

excursion to drink beer or coffee at a popular ‘resort,’ or an ordinary

ballroom, are examples of this. Not only are we amused at seeing so

many strangers, but there is a distinct stimulation at feeling our

share in their collective life. The perception of them is the stimulus,

and our reaction upon it is our tendency to join them and do what they

are doing, and our unwillingness to be the first to leave off or go

home alone.”[638]

As we can not possibly review the whole field of society, a few general

remarks must suffice to supplement what has already been said. While

there was at one time a tendency to relegate this, like so many other

sociological problems, to a religious origin, such a proceeding is now

regarded with some degree of skepticism. The Australians celebrate all

important events by dances—the harvest, the opening of the fishing

season, the coming of age of youths, a meeting with friendly tribes,

setting out to battle or the chase, and success in these. “Among the

pacific Bakaïri on the Rio Novo,” says von den Steinen, “the principal

festival is in April. I, with my civilized ideas, clung to the

supposition of a thanksgiving celebration, and wondered what friendly

power was the recipient of all this praise and gratitude. I tried to

get something definite out of Antonio, but he was unresponsive to my

suggestion. ‘We have the feast at harvest time,’ he said, ‘because we

have something to feast on then; in the dry season we have to scrimp,

and in the wet season everything is afloat.’ Materialistic, if you

will, but eminently practical.”[639]

It seems then that the origin at least of the festival is referable

to general social needs whose important stimuli arouse a general

excitation, and thus attain their most effective expression. The

essentials to primitive festivals were the feast and the dance,

both being conducted with the intemperance characteristic of mass

suggestion. Here we find again that playful satisfaction of the

sense of taste which claimed our attention in the beginning of this

discussion, and this is its clearest manifestation, since here the play

is a social one. As the child may be led to perform incredible feats in

the consumption of cakes, candy, and other dainties at a party, so the

adult, when not hampered by anxiety about his digestion or compunctions

as to such impositions on hospitality (and these considerations are

usually as far from the mind of a savage as that of a child), can

accomplish quite as much on festive occasions. This effect is furthered

by the free use of alcohol, which, in spite of its many bad qualities,

is not to be despised as a promoter of sociability. We hear so much of

the fights and brawls to which the unlicensed indulgence in spirituous

drinks gives rise that we forget that mild intoxication puts the

majority of men in a cheerful and friendly humour, and is calculated to

promote the good fellowship of the company. Without the least intention

of denying the danger incurred in the use of alcohol as a beverage, I

still think it only fair to show the other side of the picture—namely,

the damper it puts on anxiety and care, and its promotion of social

sympathy, of the associative impulses and the capacity for enthusiasm

in all directions.

Dancing, which next to feasting is the most primitive form of

festivity, is kept up to an incredible duration, the expenditure of

strength being constantly renewed. In the sagas of the Bakaïri, it is

said of Keri, the founder of the tribe: “Keri called all his followers

together, and in the evening they danced on the village green. Keri

stopped to drink while the dance costumes floated in the air about him.

He called to Kame [the ancestor of another tribe]. Many of the people

came, and Keri was lord of the dance. They danced the whole day, and

only rested toward evening; after dark they began again and danced the

whole night. Early in the morning they went to the river and bathed;

then they came back to the house and began again and danced all that

day and night. Then the holiday was over.”[640] The intoxication of

motion, which, as we have before seen, is probably the chief stimulus

in dancing, is universally enjoyed on such occasions, and enhances

the social impulses. It is a sort of ecstatic state apart from the

narrow individual sphere, and favourable to social affiliation. Indeed,

among primitive people it is often the indispensable condition of an

alliance, as there is a widespread custom for several neighbouring

tribes to collect for some high feast. No one has given a better

description of the importance of the dance for the promotion of

sociability than has Grosse. “The warmth of the dance,” he says,

“fuses the distinct individualities to a unified essence moved and

governed by a single emotion. During its progress the participants find

themselves in a condition of social completeness, the different groups

feeling and acting like members of a unified organism. This is the most

important effect of primitive dancing. It takes a number of men who,

in their detached, unsettled condition of varying individual needs and

desires, are living unregulated lives, and teaches them to act with one

impulse, one meaning, and to one end. It makes for order and cohesion

in the hunting tribes whose way of life tends to separate them. After

war it is perhaps the one factor which makes the interdependence of

individuals of savage tribes apparent to themselves, and incidentally

it is one of the best means of preparing for war, for gymnastic

exercises prefigure military tactics in more ways than one.”[641]

In studying the festal and social customs of highly civilized peoples,

while we find much that is new, many things are reminiscent of savage

life. Eating is still the principal feature, but the common impulse

to activity is no longer expressed in forms so specialized as the

savage dance, for the modern social dance is of comparatively little

importance in this connection. Entertainment by means of vocal and

instrumental music and rhythmic elocution, displays of physical prowess

and singing contests almost complete the list of plays applicable here,

being concerned as they all are with collective life. I may mention

one other phenomenon, however, which illustrates the analogy with

primitive customs—namely, the societies formed for social enjoyment.

They prove the need felt by civilized men to form within the limits

of their more extended social sphere smaller circles which by their

exclusiveness enhance the feeling of sympathy. Formerly, when special

well-organized groups arose in the burgher guilds, they were partly of

a social character, as J. Schaller points out,[642] and we yet have

labour unions, merchants’ clubs, and artists’ leagues, though in many

of them the trade or calling is no longer stressed; on the contrary,

versatility is the chief desideratum in the membership, and no strict

exclusiveness prevails. Such details are commonly determined by the

general degree of cultivation prevalent. Moreover, there is apt to be a

certain ritual belonging to such organizations, with written statutes

and unwritten traditions, all more or less playful, and quickly

developed among savages into a sort of cultus. I am not aware whether

a monograph exists treating this subject in detail, though one would

certainly be of interest.

Secret societies recall the usages of savages, especially in one

particular—namely, in excluding females. The implication in the use of

the word savage, usually unjust, is quite fair here, since the men are

pledged to inflict instant death on the woman whose curiosity should

penetrate to the secrets of their club. And while among civilized

men the protest is less vigorously applied, still the exclusion is

enforced. Von den Steinen thinks that among the Bakaïri the regulation

is due to their objection to having their women seen by strangers,

and representatives of several tribes usually take part in the dance.

Their other festivities are special hunting feasts, which are regarded

as altogether unsuitable for the participation of women.[643] Quite

as influential, if not more so, seems to me the natural feeling that

the presence of women destroys the company’s sense of unity. Savages

especially, who regard women with open contempt, would feel ill at ease

if their festivities were invaded by the other sex. When we see how

little boys, as soon as they are out of their infancy, spontaneously

refuse to take little girls for their playmates,[644] we must ascribe

some serious meaning to this essential distinction between the sexes.

It is this, I think, which forms the chief ground for the exclusion of

women from the sports of civilized men, and perhaps the same desire to

be left to themselves is a considerable factor in masculine opposition

to the woman’s movement.

In any remarks on general inner imitation we must be particularly

careful to keep well within its proper definition, or we are sure to

find ourselves launching out into the vast domain of æsthetics. How

inner sympathy is conditioned on the effects of past experience; how

it is raised to the level of æsthetic emotion only through the fact

that the beholder or hearer enjoys the fusion process for its own

sake; and how, finally, this inner imitation consists, at least with

motor individuals, and perhaps with all who are capable of æsthetic

perception, in actual movement on their own part in conjunction with

this fusion—all this has been set forth in a former section. Here

we are considering merely the social aspects of such play, and we

find its manifestations well marked. As a rule, the child, like the

adult, when in the presence of any soul-stirring spectacle, longs for

a companion to feel it with him, and when a whole social group unite

in a common imitation, the emotional effect is vastly augmented. The

social effect of such collective enjoyment is usually marked by an

increased sense of fellowship, but beyond this there is an appreciable

difference of quality which under favourable conditions directly

furthers the social feeling. Let us begin by observing the dancing of

savages again, where we find besides the pleasure of participation

the equally strong effect of seeing and hearing the other dancers—a

fact that is reiterated again and again in the descriptions of such

occasions. The facile transition from real imitation to inner sympathy

is one indication of their close kinship. The spectator is impelled

to accompany the rhythmic movement of the dance music by all sorts of

motions on his own part. Millendorf gives us the following description:

“Soon the dance became heated, the movements turned to hops and leaps,

the whole body being involved and the face inflamed; the cries grew

constantly more ecstatic, the clapping wilder, and the few garments

were finally thrown off. All present seemed seized with a frenzy; a few

attempted to withstand it for a while, but soon began to move the head

involuntarily, now left, now right, keeping time, and then suddenly,

as if bursting some invisible bonds, they leaped among the dancers,

widening the circle.”[645] As soon as external imitation begins,

æsthetic enjoyment accompanies it, but there is no doubt that to bring

this about there must be intense inner imitation before the overt act

becomes irresistibly attractive.

As has already been pointed out, the general social importance of inner

imitation depends on its enhancing effect on the feeling of fellowship,

as is illustrated even in the dancing of savages. As to the part played

by self-exhibition in this effect, we may mention that gymnastics and

war dances, which are performed before spectators, afford opportunities

for the display of physical advantages and martial prowess. Among the

lowest tribes known to us, however, the accompanying song seems to have

hardly any other than a musical significance, consisting as it does

in the mere repetition of meaningless sounds, and can not, therefore,

be considered as influential in the sense that the dramatic poetry of

higher standing peoples is so. But the war dance which pictures forth

the enemy’s defeat may be said to have something of the effect of our

patriotic drama. Some tribes, indeed, give the dramatic representation

without rhythmic dance music, more after the manner of civilized

acting. Lange describes an Australian play in the last scene of which

a fight between white men and natives is introduced. “The third scene

opened with the sound of horses tramping through the woods—horses are

indispensable to the representation of whites. The men’s faces were

stained a brownish white, their bodies blue or red to represent the

bright-coloured uniforms. In lieu of gaiters their calves were bound

with rice straw. These white men galloped straight for the blacks,

firing among them and driving them back. The latter quickly rallied,

however, and now began a mock battle in which the natives overcame

their foes and drove them away. The whites bit off their cartridges,

set the trigger, and, in short, correctly went through all the motions

of loading and firing. As often as a black man fell the spectators

groaned, but when a white man bit the dust they cheered loudly. When,

finally, all the whites took to ignominious flight, the delight of the

audience was unbounded; they were so wrought up that a feather’s weight

would have turned the sham fight into a real one.”

The drama, of course, at once suggests itself as the civilized man’s

substitute for such scenes as this, since its social significance is

incontestable, yet with limitations such as we found operative in the

dance. As among savages the inspiriting war dance and those whose

effects are comic or sexual occupy a large place, so in our theatre

the effort to transform the drama into an exclusively social and moral

agent is impracticable. The complaint that our stage, instead of being

the exponent of lofty ethical standards, caters too much to frivolous

tastes, and tickles too much the popular palate for comic effects, is

just as applicable to the savage and his dance, if it were intelligible

to him. The dual purpose of dramatic art—setting before the eyes a

complete ethical and social standard, and at the same time not scorning

to supply amusement pure and simple—will be better understood as time

goes by, and is not likely to alter, despite all cavils. Yet there is

truth in the warning, and the ideal side of the drama does need to

be fostered and emphasized at present, since in much of the material

now offered it can not be said to assert itself (omnia præclara tam

difficilia, quam rara sunt). But civilized people have besides the

drama a number of other displays, whose social effect is by no means to

be despised. I need only suggest the universal testimony of historians

to the enormous influence exerted by the Greek games on their national

sentiment, to the effect on the populace of public processions

culminating in the Roman triumphs, and the patriotic significance of

our own gymnastic and song festivals and competitive contests.

The study of epic poetry reveals a somewhat different picture. While

with us, for adults at least, enjoyment of an epic is conditioned on

its perusal, inferior peoples have access to it only through the medium

of a recounter, whose words and gestures are followed by the crowd with

the greatest interest. Renowned deeds of hunters and warriors, tales

and sagas celebrating the strength and skill of ancestors, relating

animal adventures, and dwelling on the triumph of strategy over brute

force, form for a large percentage of the human race the essence of

the recounter’s art. And without pedagogic aids a clear ideal of the

social excellence proper to his tribe is brought before the hearer’s

imagination, and exerts an incalculable influence on his thoughts and

volitions. This powerful effect of epic poetry grows with culture

and with the consolidation of the treasury of tribal tradition into

such forms, as witness the Homeric poems in their influence on the

Hellenes. Among moderns, however, the recital of poetry has ceased

almost entirely to be a form of social play since the introduction

of printing, yet its social effect is decidedly augmented, for under

present conditions a hundred thousand readers at once experience the

same feelings and respond to the same ideals. Yet the enjoyment is not

simultaneous and _en masse_, so to speak, and therefore transcends our

subject.

Finally, we must touch cursorily on the contribution of the other

arts to the social order, so far as they make use of inner imitation.

Music was mentioned in connection with dancing, and earlier still with

the intoxicating effect of rhythmic succession of tones. It is not a

matter of surprise, then, to find that a festive gathering of social

groups is almost unthinkable without the inspiration of music in some

form, or that even on serious occasions, yes, even on the battlefield

itself, the inspiriting exuberant charm of this art is appropriated

for every sort of social purpose. Of the other arts, architecture is

most applicable to our subject. It is true that from a social point

of view the influence of sculpture and painting is well worthy of

consideration, but both these arts are most effective when subservient

to architecture. The massive arch is so familiar as an impressive

symbol of social unity that a mere mention of it is sufficient—the more

as in it the playful character of æsthetic observation is to a great

degree subordinate.