covering what poetry is truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, than to keep always in mind lines and expressions of the great masters and apply them as touchstones. Thirteen words are saved and the meaning definitely expressed. To illustrate still more the profound significance of Herbert Spencer's dictum that "Economy of attention" is the fundamental requirement of all good style, in any work of art in which an artist wishes to successfully convey an emotion or thought, let us cite a few short poems. A little reflection will convince the Reader that the less words in a poem, or lines and masses in a picture, or in a statue or building, used by the artist to convey his message, the more forceful and vivid will be the effect upon the reader, spectator, or auditor, provided the words, lines, colors, etc., are so arranged as to be easily and quickly understood and grasped by the reader, spectator, or hearer. Some people imagine that a poem, to be great, must be long, and in a mystic, Browning-esque language, such as no one can easily understand. Great Error! Some poems, and among the immortal ones, are in only one verse, and in the simplest language. Here is one by Burns. It is the second-last stanza of his "Address to the Unco Guid," but it is really a poem in itself: Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang; To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Here is another, "The Chambered Nautilus," which sea urchin increases the size of the successive chambers it inhabits in its shell, as it grows older. It is by Oliver Wendell Holmes, the delightful "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table": Build thee more stately mansions, O my Soul! As the swift seasons roll Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new Temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine out-grown shell by life's unresting sea. Such gems, of poetry-arousing verse, in which not a superfluous word is used and no lines loaded down with too much "literary baggage," go straight to the soul, like an unencumbered arrow and, so, quickly exalt us to a high emotional state, a poetic state; and, thus, they successfully console us, encourage us, stimulate our life currents, by lifting us to higher planes of thought and feeling, and, so, justify the remark of the Sage who said: Let me write a people's songs and I care not who makes its laws. And what is true of poetry is true of all the arts. As to Melody of style, we will merely say: this requires not only clarity, hence ease of comprehension of the thought of the artist; economy of words and lines, to increase the quickness of the penetrating power of the work; but it needs rhythmic elegance of lines, such as have the power of "cradling" the eye, or ear, or mind, as we pointed out in our chapter on Beauty. This agreeable, melodious cradling is the least quantity of sensuous pleasure we have a right to expect in any work which is put forth as a work of art, which an artist troubles us to look at, be it in poetry or sculpture; painting or architecture; music or drama. If, in addition to that, the artist can add to this cradling, a soul-lifting, exalting power, so as to make his work not only elegant but also sublime, so much the better. Bulwer Lytton said: Refined manners are more important than religion. The same is true of art. A work of art, to endure, must have not merely style, but a beautiful style, not just any old style. It must have also, not only an effective manner, but a refined and restrained manner, not a manner that shouts out, like a circus tout: "Gentlemen! I am here! Behold me and nothing but me!" It must have not only originality, but a rational and fine originality. By that we mean: it must have no novelty so strange and weird as not to be understood by the man of average intelligence. We mean a rational originality, one not detached from life. For, an agreeable and acceptable originality must, after all, be the commonplace, plus an agreeable difference. Works that do not fill these requirements are destined to encumber the earth for a short time only. They may find their way to the walls of some library or museum and remain there for a time; but the pressure of public common-sense will, as sure as the tides, relegate them to the art-morgue and, ultimately, to the junk-pile! Mr. Brownell's reputation, as a writer, rests largely on his admirable "French Traits." In that, he was always clear and simple. Lately, he has become so involved, so stylistic, or so mannered, in his writing, that many of his long paragraphs are irritating, because they are so obscure that they force you either to painfully grope your way slowly, from word to word, or to reread the entire paragraphs, to get the true meaning of the matter. Hence, some of his "fine writing makes difficult reading." But, now and then, when he completely forgets his idol, Style, he wings off a delightful paragraph. Here is one of his latest: For the effect of the spirit of style in a work of art is precisely to add wings to it. The effect of following any objective ideal is elevation. Uplift means first of all getting out of one's self. It appeals in this way to the imagination as adventure does. But it also involves what adventure does not, definite aspiration rather than vague enthusiasm. And this aspiration to achieve rather than to experience, to reach a goal rather than to explore the unknown, to attain the normal rather than invent the novel, springs from perceiving the existence, in the ideal sphere, of a quality for which we have no other word so apt as perfection. (Italics ours.) There are epochs in which too much attention is paid, not to good style, but to personal style, or the personal element in style. Those epochs we call interregnum-epochs. They always appear between two other, creative, epochs. That is to say: an epoch will arrive in which a national wave of emotion, of exaltation, will hunger for expression, and this in an impersonal style and manner, an epoch in which both public and artists are busy trying to realize, or to express, a national ideal, and during which there will exist a large amount of, if not complete, social harmony. During such an epoch, a general style will be created and become dominant, and personal manner will not be hectically paraded by the artists, because it will seem gross, petty, and vulgar, for a man, at that time, to obtrude himself and his particular manner, instead of trying to express the national emo tion in the impersonal style, which will, in that epoch, be everybody's manner. For, in a great creative epoch, when the nation is aroused, it is the people which speaks and not the individual; he must then sink himself in the Nation, as he does in the army in war. He must not only sing, but sing in tune. Then, peculiar notes are not wanted. The artist is then, through social pressure, forced to suppress, if not his egotism, at least any leaning towards a cacophonic ego-mania. When, then, the governing impulse of that epoch has been weakened, because the national ideals of the epoch shall have been well, or sufficiently, expressed, then comes an epoch of spiritual fatigue. National expression having had its vogue, national relaxation, and then introspection, will follow. The "Marseillaise," the grandest national anthem ever composed, having been sung enough, the people will say, "Oh! Zut alors! En voila assez!" that is: "Oh! Rats, enough of that!" And then there will begin a carnival of vaudevillianism in life and art, an epoch of triviality, even immorality, in everything. Exalting poetry and impersonal style will be at a discount, and will be, by the roughnecks in art, called "Bunk," "Old Hat," "Victorianism," etc! "Now, let's have something differHurrah for the personal! We've Then men will shout: ent! Damn the classic! sung our national song, haven't we? And say, it was a corker. What? Well, now church is over, and I'm going to the 'Bal Bullier' and have a good time. I've been constrained long enough. I am going to git my gal and 'chahuter.' Come along and see me sling my legs 'fifty ways for sunday!'" And he goes to the Bullier, and there, it is wine, women, and song, in a wild cohu-bohu, each corybant trying to be, first personal, then funny, then extravagant, even to insanity, each having his personal pose-none must be anywhere near alike— his "difference," Hellenic or Hellish, being his only true contribution to the riot of gallic gayety! During such an epoch, grandeur of style in art is kicked on the junk-pile, and Universalism in style succumbs to Individualism in manner! And this will go on until the nation gets close to the brink of dangerous weakness, when the prophets will again be listened to; or, until a war comes along, and whips the nation out |