one seems beautiful even to a philosopher. Indeed, a beautiful woman is to the average man, the most beautiful object in the world. Fishermen see beauty in fish. Ambitious jurists see beauty in wigs. And this is as it must be. Perverted minds, as is very well known, see beauty in the most absurd fetishes. This brings us to the impression of beauty arising from recognition of types. A really beautiful woman, or beautiful man, or beautiful horse, seems beautiful (aside from the symmetry of the body) because these represent the perfect types of their forms of life. This is a beauty of verisimilitude. The mind responds with delight to a replica of its ideal. And we have ideals of all the forms which are closely woven into our experience-subconsciously we are prepared to recognize the perfect nose, the perfect ankle, the perfect brow in man. That we generally differ with each other about the ideal nose or haunch is immaterial. The beauty of verisimilitude is present in precision in literature. We take aesthetic delight in all perfect representations or embodiments of ideas as well as of sensuous forms. If a writer's conception is incarnated in appropriate, precise and adequate diction so that we feel instinctively that the expression is an exact replica, a "living likeness" of the idea in the writer's mind, we experience an aesthetic satisfaction. A limpid style, however lacking in ornament, is a beautiful style. It does not matter whether we accept the ideas expressed as true or reject them as false. If we detect a precision of language which merges expression and idea we acclaim that verisimilitude as beautiful. To return from literature to nature: Any spectacle of whatever sort which overwhelms the individual, making him sensible of a complete harmony in which his identity is submerged, creates an aesthetic effect. I refer to the effect of the night sky or the sea when one is in an expansive mood, or of great natural disturbances - hurricanes and thunderstorms, or the effect of watching a disaster such as the falling of a tower or a collision of trains. These last are terrible and by no means beautiful to an individual involved in the crash, but they are beautiful to the onlooker if he is sufficiently impressed to share, as imaginative persons do share, in the slow sweep of the inevitable motion and the dreadful consummation of the impact. If he becomes a vibration in that affair, a part of it, as poets and artists do, it is for him beautiful with terrible beauty. Any conscious merger of the personality with a sensation is beautiful in effect. The conscious element in the perception of beauty, however, must be kept in mind. An unconscious merger is not beautiful any more than an unrecognized sensuous harmony. Beauty is an intellectual conception. A man who is thunderstruck into a hypnosis sees no beauty in the sublime or the terrible, unless in retrospect, and likewise a man who is hypnotized by a pleasing color, sound, odor or touch perceives no beauty. In such cases we simply cease to exist, as in dreamless sleep. Beauty can be perceived only by the mind. Beauty, like Blake's tear, is an intellectual thing. The student of aesthetics sees no difficulty in the fact that a given object or conception will seem beautiful to one in hexameters or concert programs and opera. The negro field-hand gets from a banjo what Beethoven got from a piano. The principle which is manifest in these appreciations is the same. We can, of course, maintain that, through refinement and education, all men can be guided toward a more delicate taste. To admit that there is beauty for the vulgar in a chromo is not to say that a chromo is as beautiful as a painting by Michelangelo. It is merely to say that the beauty of the latter also is relative. The Second Crusade By ELIZABETH J. COATSWORTH Louis is heading the crusade from the loftiest of motives, He prays, he fasts, he gives alms, he performs penance, I swear his war-horse has caught the fever and bows every time a priest says amen! Louis is a dedicated spirit with the mildness of a nun, and the courage of a fanatic. He was well trained by his mother. His blue eyes have seen visionsBut Eleanor of Aquitaine, leading her court-ladies dressed as Amazons, Is here in the Holy Land from a most unconsecrated, unhallowed, unsanctified, itching love of adventure. She and her squadron are everywhere, interfering with everything, suggesting a thousand unfeasible plans, Scurrying on horse-back over the country when it is most dangerous, Reclining on silk-spread couches in their pavilions when the army should be marching, Discussing the beauties of the men of Constantinople while the rear-guard is being attacked If ever crusading can be a mirthful and mad business Across all bare and bitter Palestine Their forces sweep in a comedy of mortality, Beside Louis' extravaganza of the spirit. (A Scenario) By LOUIS GILMORE The day ends Like any other Apparently Night lulls The inferior antic The cage sleeps Except Florizel Florizel wakes He loves She is not of the cage What a cage He is weary of it Is there no way out If only the god at feeding time Should forget to padlock A paw reaches through the wire The padlock is not there Thou hast only to give a push Florizel The door opens But not wide Fling thyself against it It swings wide open Florizel hesitates Glances about And pulls the door shut again At this moment The moon Rises above a cocoanut The tree in which he has seen her playing Where her nest is surely She who is sweeter than any nut Bursting open the door he jumps Runs Trips Rises Runs on Bumps into a tree Which is not a cocoanut At last he finds it It is her nest at the top Already he has drawn her to him Then he clasps the foot of the tree A ray of the moon lights it Two are in it Asleep Tail in tail Poor Florizel It is she She loves another She is perhaps married Thou wast happier in thy cage Yet how beautiful she is Listen I love thee We will yet be happy together And he approaches his face for a kiss It jerks back with a scream She has bitten his ear Nevertheless She loves thee a little Florizel She bites thee on the ear He holds on with one paw And feels for his ear with the other Meanwhile The companion of her nest Rouses Picking a cocoanut He deals it from above his head Florize! relaxes Drops Midway He grasps at a twig Wakes In his corner Scratching himself It is already light That door It was never open Inscription By MARIAN NEVIN FUNK Now light shall flower In her hair only White in the luminous dark Flower of her hair: For her lover's drouth The petaled cool Dust of her mouth |