I suspect that we may be participating in the rise of a new type of culture which shall revise rather than abandon the old traditions， and whose central current will perhaps be a large study of the principles of human life and of their expression in history， art， philanthropy and religion. And the belief that the new discipline of sociology (much clarified and freed from whatever crudeness and pretension may now impair it) is to have a part in this may not be entirely a matter of special predilection.
Not very long since a critic， wrote of contemporary art as follows：
"Every one who is acquainted with technical matters in the fine arts is aware that the quietly perfect art of oil painting is extinct or(390) nearly so， and that in its place we have a great variety of extremely clever and dexterous substitutes， resulting in skillful partial expressions of artistic beauty， but not reaching that calm divine harmony of aim and method which we find in Titian and Giorgione， and even in such work as that of Velasquez. The greatest painting of past times had one quality which no modern one really possesses梚t had tranquillity." [2]
This touches upon something which梐s we have already had occasion to observe梚mpairs nearly all in the way of higher spiritual achievement that our time produces梐 certain breathlessness and lack of assured and quiet power. And this is connected with that confusion which does not permit the unquestioned ascendancy of any one type， but keeps the artist choosing and experimenting， in the effort to make a whole which tradition does not supply ready-made.
In times of authoritative tradition a type of art grows up by accretion， rich and pregnant after its kind， which each artist unconsciously inherits and easily expresses. His forerunners have done the heavy work， and all that he needs to do is to add the glamour of personal genius. The grandeur of great literature條ike the Bible， or Homer， or even， though less obviously， Dante， Shakespeare and Goethe梚s largely that of traditional accumulation and concentration. The matter is old； it has been worked over and over and the unessential squeezed out， leaving a pregnant remainder which the artist enlivens with creative imagination. And the same is true of painting and sculpture.
So in architecture： a mediaeval cathedral was the culmination of a long social growth， not greatly dependent upon (391) individual genius. "Not only is there built into it，" says Mr. Ferguson in his History of Modern Architecture， " the accumulated thought of all the men who had occupied themselves with building during the preceding centuries . . . but you have the dream and aspiration of the bishop， who designed it， of all his clergy， who took an interest in it， of the master-mason， who was skilled in construction； of the carver， the painter， the glazier， of the host of men who， each in his own craft， knew all that had been done before them， and had spent their lives in struggling to surpass the work of their forefathers.... You may wander in such a building for weeks or for months together and never know it all. A thought or a motive peeps out through every joint， and is manifest in every moulding， and the very stones speak to you with a voice as clear and as easily understood as the words of the poet or the teaching of the historian. Hence， in fact， the little interest we can feel in even the stateliest of modern buildings， and the undying， never satisfied interest with which we study over and over again those which have been produced under a different and truer system of art." [3]
In the same way the Greek architect of the time of Pericles "had before him a fixed and sacred standard of form. . . . He had no choice；his strength was not wasted among various ideals； that which he had inherited Noms a religion to him.... Undiverted by side issues as to the general form of his monument， undisturbed by any of the complicated conditions of modern life， he was able to concentrate his clear intellect upon the perfection of his details； his sensitiveness to harmony of proportion was (392) refined to the last limits： his feeling for purity of line reached the point of a religion." [4]
The modern artist may have as much personal ability as the Greek or the mediaeval' but' having no communal tradition to share in his work， he has to spread his personality out very thin to cover the too broad task assigned to it， and this thinness becomes the general fault of contemporary aesthetic production. If he seeks to avoid it by determined concentration there is apt to be something strained and over-conscious in the result.
EndnotesThis illustration is used by Miss Jane Addams. Philip Gilbert Hamerton， Thoughts about Art， page 99. Page 24. Van Brunt， Greek Lines， 95 ff .
