CHAPTER III

ROMANTIC ARCHITECTURE

The Gothic architecture of the Middle Ages, which constitutes here the characteristic centre of the truly romantic type, has for a long time, more especially since the popularization and predominance of the French taste, been regarded as something rude and barbarous. In recent times it was Goethe who mainly, in the first instance, and in the youthful freshness of his own nature and artistic outlook, brought once more the Gothic type to its place of honour. Critical taste has been more and more concerned to appreciate and respect these imposing works as giving effective expression both to the distinctive purpose of Christian culture, and the harmonious unity thereby created between architectonic form and the ideal spirit of Christendom.

I. GENERAL CHARACTER

In so far as the general character of these buildings is concerned, in which religious architecture is that which is most prominent, we discovered already in our introduction to this part of our inquiry that in this type both those of _independent_ and _serviceable_ architecture are _united._ This unity, however, does not in any way consist in a fusion of the architectural forms of the Oriental and the Greek, but we must look for it in the fact that, on the one hand, the house or _dwelling-enclosure_ furnishes yet more the fundamental type than in the Greek temple construction, and, on the other, mere _serviceableness_ and purpose is to that extent _eliminated_, and the house is emphasized apart from it in its _free independence._ No doubt these houses of God and other buildings of this type appear to the fullest extent as constructed for definite objects, as already stated, but their true character is precisely this, that it reaches over and beyond the determinate aim and presents itself in a form of self-seclusion and positive local independence. The creation stands up in its place independent, secure, and eternal. For this reason the character of the entirety is no longer to be deduced from any purely scientific or theoretical relation. Within the interior the box-like envelope of our Protestant churches falls away which are built simply that they may be filled with men and women, and do not possess church pews as stalls; in their exterior, the building soars in its roofing and pinnacles freely upwards, so that the relation of purpose, however much it be also present, tends again to disappear, leaving the impression of the whole that of a self-subsistent existence. Such a building is entirely filled up by nothing expressly; everything is absorbed in the grandeur of the whole: it possesses and declares a definite object, but in its grandiose proportions and sublime repose it is essentially and with an infinite significance exalted[104] above all mere intentional serviceableness. This exaltation over finitude and simple security is that which constitutes the _unique_ characteristic aspect of it. From another point of view it is precisely in this type that architecture finds the greatest opportunity for _particularisation_, diversion of effect and variety, without permitting, however, the whole to fall into mere details and accidental

## particulars. The imposing character of the art we are considering

restores, on the contrary, this aspect of division and dismemberment in the original impression of simplicity. It is the substantive being of the whole which is set in division and dismemberment in an infinite multiplicity throughout the entire complexus of individual and varied distinctions; but this unbounded complexity is subdivided in a simple way, is articulated according to rule, broken into parts symmetrically by the same substance, which is the motive and constitutive principle throughout in a harmonious co-ordination which entirely satisfies, and which combines without let or hindrance the mass of detail in all their length and breadth in securest unity and most perspicuous independence.

2. PARTICULAR ARCHITECTURAL MODES OF CONFORMATION

If we pass now to a consideration of the particular forms in which romantic architecture receives its specific character we shall find, as we have already above noticed, that our entire discussion will be confined to what is genuine Gothic architecture, and mainly that of the church buildings of Christendom, in their contrast to the Greek temple.

(_a_) As fundamental form underlying all the rest, we have here the _wholly shut off dwelling-house._

(_α_) In other words, just as the Christian spirit withdraws itself within an ideal realm, the building is the place essentially delimited on all sides for the congregation of the Christian community and the gathering together of spiritual life. It is the concentration of essential soul-life which thus encloses itself in spatial relations. The devotion of the Christian heart, however, is at the same time and in the same degree an exaltation over finitude, so that this exaltation, moreover, determines the character of God's house. Architecture secures thereby as its significance, independently of the object which renders it necessary as a building, this exaltation to the Infinite, a significance which it is forced to express through the spatial relations of architectural forms. The impression, therefore, which art is now called upon to emphasize is, in one aspect of it, and in contrast to the open gaiety of the Greek temple, that of the tranquillity of the soul which, released from external nature and worldly conditions, retires wholly into self-seclusion; in the other aspect of it it is that impress of a solemn sublimity, which strains and soars over and beyond all rational limits. If, therefore, the buildings of classical architecture as a rule offer the expansion of breadth, we find in contrast to this that the romantic character of Christian churches asserts itself in the growth upwards from the soil and a soaring to the skies.

(_β_) In this oblivion of external Nature and all the diverting occupations and interests of finite existence, which is to be effected by means of such seclusion, the open forecourts and colonnades and the like, which are in direct communication with that world, furthermore and of necessity fall away, or only receive an entirely modified representation within the interior of the building. And in like manner the light of the sun is either excluded, or glimmers in broken rays through windows of painted glass, which, to prevent total immersion in darkness, are perforce admitted. What humanity needs here is not the gift of external Nature, but a world created through it and for it alone, for its devotion and the activity of its soul-life.

(_γ_) We may fix as the pervading type by which the house of God is generally and with particular reference to its sections characterized that of the free rise and running up into _pinnacles_, whether they be built up by means of the arch or straight lines. In classical architecture, where we find columns and piers with superimposed beams is the fundamental form, rectangularity and the office of support is the feature of importance. For the construction superimposed at right angles marks in a definite way that it is supported. And even though the beams do in their turn carry the roofing, the surfaces of this latter portion incline to one another in an obtuse angle. In such a construction we find no trace of a genuine tendency to points and a soaring up: we find simply repose and support. In the same way, too, a circular arch, which extends in a continuous and equally gradated incline from one column to another, and is referable to one and the same centre, rests on its substructure of support. In romantic architecture, however, we no longer find the relation of support simply and rectangularity the fundamental form, but rather we have before us the fact that all that is enclosed either on its interior or exterior side independently springs upward, and, without the secure and express distinction between the relationship of weight and support, concentrates in a point. This pre-eminently free striving upwards and tendency to inclines that run to culminating points is what constitutes here the essential determinant, by virtue of which either acute-angled triangles with a more slender or broader base or pointed arches appear, both of which aspects stand out most obviously in the characterization of Gothic architecture.

(_b_) Moreover, the obligations of spiritual devotion and exaltation, regarded as a cultus, bring before us a variety of definite conditions and features which cannot be fully met on the exterior of the building in the open halls or forecourts of a temple, but can only be satisfied within the house of God itself. If, therefore, in the case of the temple of classical architecture it is the external form which is of most importance, and we find it remaining by means of the colonnades more independent of the interior construction, romantic architecture presents a contrast to this not merely in the fact that the interior of the building is more essentially important, for the reason that the whole purports to be simply an enclosure, but also in this, that the interior permeates the very form of the exterior throughout, and determines its specific shape and mode of articulation.

In this connection we will, in order to examine the matter more closely, first make an entrance into the interior, and working outwards therefrom endeavour to elucidate the exterior.

(_α_) The definition I have already adduced as best describing the _interior_ of the church is that of a certain place set apart and enclosed in all its aspects, whether it be in opposition to the inclemency of the weather or the distractions of the outer world, for the community and its spiritual worship. The space of the interior is consequently an enclosure in the completest sense, whereas Greek temples, apart from the presence of open passages and halls in the environment, not unfrequently possessed open cells.

Inasmuch as, moreover, Christian worship is an _exaltation_ of the soul above the limitations of natural existence and a reconciliation of the individual with God, we find in this fact a mediation of points of view which are separably _distinct_ in one and the same essentially concrete unity. At the same time romantic architecture receives the function in the form and co-ordination of its building to make the above content of spiritual life, to enclose which is the prime object of its construction, so far as this is architecturally feasible, shine through and determine the actual shape both of the exterior and the interior. The following points will assist our understanding of the nature of this problem.

(_αα_) The space of the interior will have to be no abstractly undifferentiated and empty one, which possesses no essentially defined features or links that relate them respectively. It must have a concrete form, one, that is, which presents differences in respect to all the mutual relations of length, breadth, height, and the mode of such dimensions. The form of the circle, the square, the oblong, with the equality of enclosing walls and roofing which is necessary to these figures, will not be suitable here. The movement, severation, and mediation of soul-life in its exaltation from that which is of earth to that which is eternal, to the far-off and the more lofty, would fail to find apt expression in this bare equality of a square figure.

(_ββ_) It is only a corollary to this that in the Gothic style the substantial _purport_ of the house, both in respect of its enclosing form of sidewalls and roof, and in that of its columns and beams relatively to the _configuration_ of the whole and its parts, becomes a matter of subordinate importance. And with this disappears, on the one hand, as we have already noticed, the strict distinction between burden and support, as on the other we find no longer rectangularity is emphasized as essential to the building's purpose. Recourse is made once more to an analogous form of Nature, namely, one that prefigures a solemn place of assemblage and enclosure which freely soars upwards. If we step into the interior of a cathedral of the Middle Ages we have brought before us not so much the stability and mechanical purpose of supporting piers and a vault that rests upon it. We are rather reminded of the arches of a forest, whose rows of trees incline with their branches to one another and form an enclosure by this means. A crossbeam requires a secure centre of gravity and the horizontal position. In Gothic architecture, however, the walls mount up freely and independently, and in the same way the piers, which then expand above in several directions apart from one another, and coalesce as though by accident. In other words their function, to support the vaulting, is, although the same in truth reposes on the piers, not expressly emphasized and independently set forth[105]. The effect is as though they did not carry such, just as in the tree the branches do not appear as though supported by the stem, but rather in their airy incurvation as a continuation of the stem, and with the branches of other trees, form a roof of leaves. A roofing of this kind, which is thus fixed upon as the cover of the life of Spirit, this awful environment, which invites us to contemplation, it is which the cathedral presents us, in so far as the walls and among them the forest of piers freely coalesce in their summits. But for all that we do not actually assert that Gothic architecture has accepted trees and woods for the actual exemplar of its forms.

While the sharpening to a point offers us generally the basic type in Gothic we find in the interior of churches this tendency take the more specialized shape of the _pointed arch._ By this means the _columns_ in

## particular receive an entirely fresh significance and appearance.

The broad Gothic churches require a roofing to close them in, a roofing which on account of the breadth is a severe burden and renders support unavoidable. Here, therefore, the columns appear to be in their right place. For the reason, however, that the straining upwards is precisely that which converts support into the appearance of free soaring-up columns are unable to be employed here with the significance they possess in classical architecture. They become, on the contrary, piers which, in lieu of the cross-beam, carry arches in a manner whereby they appear as simply a continuation of the pier and coalesce together without definite object in a point. We may, no doubt, conceive the unavoidable termination of two piers that stand apart from one another as analogous to a gut-roof that rests on corner posts; but taking into consideration the surfaces at the sides, although they, too, are planted on piers in entirely obtuse angles, and incline to one another in an acute angle, we find in the latter case none the less the conception on the one hand of burden, and on the other of support. The pointed arch, on the contrary, which apparently in the first instance mounts up in a straight line, and only by imperceptible and slower degrees leans forward in order to incline to the opposite side, presents for the first time the complete idea as though it was just nothing but the continuation of the pier itself, which forms an arch with another. Piers and vaulting appear, in their contrast to columns and the beam, as one and the same image, although the arches rest upon the capitals from which they spring. The capitals, too, in specific cases, such as occur in Netherland churches, keep away altogether, and by this means the inseparable unity above-mentioned is made expressly visible to the eye.

Moreover, on account of the fact that this striving upwards is declared as the fundamental character, the height of the piers exceeds that of the breadth of their base in a proportion that we cannot calculate at sight. The piers are thin, slender, and soar up so high the sight is unable to take in the entire form at a glance, and is compelled to rove about in its upward flight until it attains repose at last in the gently inclined vaulting of the uniting arch, much as the soul moving with restlessness in its devotion from the ground of finitude uplifts itself and finds rest in God alone.

The final point of distinction between piers and columns consists in this, that the piers which are distinctively Gothic, and, where they are elaborated in their specific character, do not, as columns do, remain in the circular form, essentially secure in that, and one and the same cylinder, but to begin with at their base in a reed-like way constitute a convolute, a bundle of fibres, which break into varied distinction as the pier mounts and radiate forth on all sides under various modes of continuation. And, while we find already in classical architecture that the column represents an advance from that which is merely subject to laws of gravity, from the solid and simple to that which is more slender and more adorned, so, too, we find much the same change visible in the pier, which, in this more slender upgrowth, ever withdraws itself more from the mere service of support, and freely soars upward albeit shut in at its summit.

The same form of piers and pointed arches is repeated in windows and doors. More particularly the windows, not merely the lower ones of the side aisles, but also in a still higher degree, the upper ones of the transepts and choir, are of colossal size in order that the glance, which rests upon their lower portion, may not at once take in the upper part as well and may be uplifted as in the case of the vaultings. This adds to the restless motion of the upward flight which it is intended to communicate to the spectator. Add to this the window panes, as we have already remarked, are with their coloured glass only partially transparent. Sometimes they present sacred histories and sometimes they are merely panes of varied colour with the object of increasing the twilight effect and permitting the light of the wax candles to shine forth. For in these buildings it is another daylight than that of Nature which illumines.

(_γγ_) Finally, as regards the _entire articulation_ of the interior of Gothic churches we have already seen that it is imperative that the

## particular parts of such should be differentiated in their breadth,

height, and length. The primary distinction to consider in this respect is that of _choir, transept_, and _nave_ from the _encircling aisles._ These latter are constructed on the sides external to the fabric by means of walls which enclose it, and from which piers and arches are carried, and in their separation from the interior by means of piers and pointed arches, which present openings toward the nave, having no

## partition walls between. They receive therefore the converse aspect to

that of the colonnades in Greek temples, which are open on the outside and are enclosed towards the interior, whereas the aisles in Gothic churches permit free passage between the piers to the nave. In certain examples we find two such aisles in juxtaposition; in fact, Antwerp cathedral is an example which possesses three of them at either side of the nave.

The _nave_ itself soars up by means of enclosing walls on either side, at different degrees of elevation, according to various modes of disposition, above the aisles, broken by colossal windows in such a way that the walls themselves at the same time have the appearance of being slender piers, which everywhere separate in pointed arches and build up vaultings. There are, however, churches in which the side aisles have the same height as the nave, as, for example, in the later choirs of the Sebaldus Church in Nuremberg, which offers the impression of an imposing, free, and capacious type of slenderness and delicacy. In this way the whole is divided by means of rows of piers, which are brought together at their summits like a forest in flights of branching arches. Attempts have been made to discover in the _number_ of these piers, and generally in the relations of number much _mystical_ significance. There can be no question but that at the period of the finest efflorescence of Gothic architecture, that, for example, of Cologne Cathedral, a great significance was attached to the symbols of number, the as yet more gloomy presentiment of what is rational falling in readily with an insistence on external traits of this kind. But despite this fact the artistic productions of architecture, which are carried through by means of that which is always to a greater or less degree merely the capricious play of a symbolism of subordinate rank, is neither of the profoundest significance, nor of the most exalted form of beauty, for the reason that the genuine spirit of these is expressed in entirely different forms and modes than those applicable to the significance of numeral distinctions. We must therefore be especially cautious not to carry such investigations too far. To attempt to go to the root of everything and in every direction to desire to discover a deeper meaning will tend quite as much to contract our horizon and destroy our thoroughness of search as is common with all short-sighted learning which passes over the depth which is clearly expressed and presented without grasping it. In respect to the more detailed distinction between _choir_ and nave, I will in conclusion emphasize the following points. The high-altar, this real centre of the ritual, is placed in the choir, which is thus dedicated as the place for the priesthood as distinct from the community, whose proper place is that of the nave, where we find the pulpit for the preacher. A flight of steps, which varies in its height, conducts us to the choir, so that this latter section and all that takes place in it is visible everywhere. In the same way this choir section is relatively to decoration more ornate, and, moreover, in its distinction from the more prolonged nave, even where the vaultings in both cases are of equal height, is more serious, solemn, and sublime. Above all we find here that the entire building is finally enclosed with piers of greater thickness and more closely, by means of which the breadth tends to disappear, and the entire effect is one of greater stillness and height, whereas the transepts and the nave through their towers still provide with their means of entrance and exit a connection with the outside world. According to the points of the compass the choir is placed to the east, the nave lies in a westerly direction, and the transepts stand towards the north and south. We find, however, churches with a double choir, in which the two choirs lie respectively in the direction of morning and evening and the main entrances are placed in the transepts. The stone font for baptism, that is, for the sanctification of human entry into the Christian community, is placed in a porch by the main _entrance_ into the church. And, finally, we may note that, while the more express worship is provided for by the entire building, and notably the choir and nave, there are also small chapels which form in each case a fresh and independent church.

This must suffice as a description of the articulate structure of the whole. In a cathedral of this type there is space enough for an entire people. For here it is the intention that the community of a city and district do not congregate round the building, but within the same. And for this reason all the varied interests of life which in any way come into contact with religion have, too, a place assigned them. No fixed divisions of seats placed in rows divide and diminish the broad space, but everyone comes and departs in peace, engages for himself or takes a seat for immediate use, kneels down, offers his prayer and removes himself once more. If it is not the hour of high mass the most various things take place at the same time, and there is no confusion. In one portion a sermon is delivered, in another a sick man is brought in; between these points we may find a slow procession; at one spot, we have a baptism, at another a deceased person is carried through the church. Or we may find in one place a priest delivering mass or celebrating the marriage services and in every direction the people in broken groups kneel before altars and sacred images. All such things are embraced by one and the same building. But this very variety and individualization disappears, nevertheless, with its alternations when contrasted with the expanse and size of the building. Nothing completely fills up the whole, every incident passes by; individuals with all that they do are lost and dispersed as points in this grandiose whole. What happens at a given time is merely visible in its passing flight, and over and above all the huge and almost measureless spaces soar up in their secure and immutable form and construction.

Such, then, are the fundamental characteristics of the interior of Gothic churches. We must not look here for any definite purpose as such, but rather an object for the private devotion of the soul in its self-absorption in every detail of the spiritual life[106], and its elevation over all that is isolated and finite. For this reason these buildings are cut off from Nature by spaces enclosed on all sides, built up in the atmosphere of gloom and at the same time to the smallest detail in a spirit that strives upwards sublime and immeasurable.

(_β_) If we direct our attention now to the _external_ aspect we shall find, as we have already above observed, that in contrast to the Greek temple the exterior configuration in Gothic architecture, the decoration and co-ordination of the walls and all else is determined from within outwards, the exterior having to appear simply as an enclosure of the interior.

In this connection we have good reason to emphasize the following points:

(_αα_) In the _first_ place in the form of the _cross_ which we find dominates the whole exterior we cannot fail to recognize in outline a similar construction as that which obtains within, a form which cuts, the nave and choir in two, and supplies, moreover, the distinctions of height which obtain between the aisles, the nave and choir.

On closer inspection we find that the _principal façade_, as the external form of the aisles and nave, corresponds in the _portals_ to the particular construction within. A more lofty principal door, by which we pass direct into the nave, stands between the smaller entrances into the aisles, and suggests by means of the contraction in perspective that the exterior must draw together, grow more narrow, and disappear in order than an entrance may be thereby provided. The interior is the background already visible, into the depths of which the exterior is carried, just as the soul is constrained to grow more profound as ideality when it enters its own intrinsic wealth. Over the doors at the sides extend in the most direct connection with the interior colossal windows, just as the portals rise up to similar pointed arches, in a way similar to that in which they are employed as the particular form for the vaultings of the interior. Between these doors over the principal portal a large circular window branches out, the rose-window, a form which is, we may add, the exclusive and peculiar possession of this type of building, and only fitted to it. Where such rose-windows are absent we find substituted for them a still more colossal window with pointed arches. The façades of the transepts are divided in a similar way while the walls of the nave, the choir, and the aisles in their windows and their form, no less than in the position of the solid walls between, repeat in all respects the form of the interior and set the same forth on the outside.

(_ββ_) In the _second_ place, however, the exterior begins to make itself at the same time intelligible to itself[107] in this close association with the form and subdivision of the interior for the very reason that it has its own peculiar tasks to fulfil. In this connection we may mention the _flying buttresses._ They represent the position of the many piers within the building and are necessary as points of support for the elevation and security of the whole. At the same time they further make apparent on the outside, so far as interval, number, and other features are concerned, the rows of piers on the inside, albeit they do not exactly reproduce the shape of the interior piers, but the higher they mount up become reduced in the strength of their springing buttresses.

(_γγ_) Inasmuch as, however, in the _third_ place, it is only the interior which has to be one essentially complete enclosure, this feature is lost in the form of the exterior and makes way in every respect for the all-prevailing characteristics of continuous elevation. And for this reason the exterior receives at the same time a form independent of the interior, which asserts itself mainly in a tendency to strive upwards on all sides into points and pinnacles, breaking out in them one on the top of another. To this fundamental feature belong the lofty uplifted triangles which, independently of the pointed arches, soar upwards over the portals, pre-eminently the principal façade, though also over the colossal windows of the nave and choir, and in a similar way the slenderly pointed shape of the roof, whose gable-end is especially prominent in the façades of the transepts. Add to these the flying buttresses, which everywhere terminate in little pointed pinnacles, and in this way, just as the rows of piers within the building create a forest of stems, branches, and vaultings, on their part on the exterior stretch up heavenwards a forest of points.

With most independence and most emphatically, however, it is the _towers_ which rise upwards in their sublime summits. In other words we find that the entire mass of the building concentrates among other things itself in them, in order that thus in its main towers it may be without hindrance uplifted to an incalculable height without thereby losing its character of repose and stability. Such towers are either placed in the principal façade over the two side entrances, while a third and broader main tower springs up at the point where the vaulting of the transepts, choir, and nave meet, or one single tower constitutes the principal façade and is raised above the entire breadth of the nave. Such are at any rate the positions which are most usual. In direct connection with the worship such towers have belfries, that is, to the extent that the ringing of bells properly applies to Christian services. This merely indefinite tone of the bell is a solemn stimulus of the soul-life, though in the first instance one that as yet prepares the worshipper only on the outside of the building. The articulate tone, on the other hand, wherein a definite content of feelings and ideas is expressed, is the song which is only to be heard within the church. The inarticulate clang of the bell finds its right place on the outside and only there and is sounded forth from the towers that its peal may pass forth as from some pure height far over the land.

(_c_) As to the mode of decoration I have already pointed to the main features of determinate character.

(_α_) The _first_ point we have to emphasize is the importance of ornament generally for Gothic architecture. Classical architecture preserves as a rule a wise mean in the adornment of its constructions. Inasmuch as, however, it is the main interest of Gothic architecture to make the masses which it places in position appear larger and considerably more lofty than they in fact are it is not satisfied with plain surfaces, but subdivides the same throughout; and, moreover, breaks them up with forms which themselves suggest on their part a striving upwards. Piers, pointed arches, and triangles, which rise above them with their pinnacles, occur, too, as decorative work. In this way we find that the simple unity of the great masses is impaired, and the elaboration is carried to the point of every conceivable detail, leaving the entire effect, however, involved in the most flagrant contradiction. On the one hand we cannot fail to observe the most obvious outlines in a clearly defined co-ordination, on the other we have fulness and variety of delicate embellishment impossible to follow with the eye, so that the most motley particularity is directly set up in contrast to what is most universal and simple, just as the soul, in the opposition implied in Christian worship, is deeply engaged in finite things, and indeed carries its life into the mere detail and the trifle. This very opposition acts as a stimulus to contemplation, this striving up invites to a like action. For what is of paramount importance in this style of decoration is this that it do not, by the mass and alternation of its ornament, destroy or cover up the fundamental outlines, but rather suffer them completely to make their way through such variety as the essential feature of importance. Only when it can do this, and I speak in particular of Gothic buildings, is the solemnity of their imposing seriousness kept intact. Just as religious devotion has to permeate all particular experiences of soul-life, the life-conditions of every type of humanity, has further to engrave indelibly on the heart its universal and incommutable ideas, so in the same way the simple and fundamental architectural features should have strength sufficient to recall the most varied articulation, diversity and embellishment of the structure once more within the fundamental impression of those outlines and wholly thus absorb them.

(_β_) A _further_ aspect in decorative work is bound up in the same way with the romantic type of art in general. The romantic has on the one hand for its principle Ideality, the return of the Ideal to itself. On the other the Ideal has to reappear in that which is external, and then withdraw itself into itself from the same. In architecture it is the sensuous, material mass in relations of Space, in which the most Ideal essence itself is, so far as that is possible, to be presented in visible shape. With a material such as this to deal with there is no other alternative possible than that of not suffering this material to assert itself with power in its materiality, but to break up and dismember its masses in every direction, and to wrest from the same the appearance of its immediate coherence and self-subsistency. In this connection the ornamentation, more particularly that of the exterior, which has not to display the fact of enclosure as such, assumes the character of a net-work[108] carried in every direction, or rather interwoven over the surfaces; and we have no example of an architecture which, taking into account the enormous and heavily weighted masses of its stone and their secure coherence, nevertheless has preserved to such a complete extent the character of lightness and delicacy.

(_γ_) We have only further and _thirdly_ to remark with reference to such embellishments that in addition to pointed arches, piers, and circles, the forms once more call to mind those of the real organic world. The fretwork and working out of the mass already carries a suggestion of this. Regarded in more detail, however, we actually find leaves, rosettes of flowers, and, in entwining work of an arabesque character, human figures and those of animals partly realistically and partly fantastically linked together; the romantic imagination, in short, even in architecture, displays its wealth of imaginative creation, and its power to unite in unexpected ways heterogeneous elements, although from another point of view, at any rate during the period of the purest type of Gothic architecture, even in the matter of ornament, as, for example, in the pointed arches of the windows, we may observe a decisive return to simple forms.

3. DIFFERENT TYPES OF BUILDING IN ROMANTIC ARCHITECTURE

The last point on which I have a few observations to make is that of the principal types followed by romantic architecture in its course of development at different periods. I must, however, add the premise that in this work no attempt can be made to supply a history of this branch of the art.

(_a_) We must wholly distinguish from Gothic architecture, such as I have above described it, the so-called pre-Gothic, whose development originated in Roman architecture. The most ancient form of Christian churches is that of the _basilica._ These originated out of the public buildings of the Empire, huge oblong halls, with the frame-work of their roofing of wood, such as Constantine placed at the disposal of Christians. In buildings such as these there was a tribune, on which, during congregational religious services conducted by priests, there was singing and an address delivered, or merely reading aloud. The conception of the choir may have originated with this. In the same way Christian architecture accepted other of its forms such as the use of columns with circular arches, the rotunda and the modes of classical embellishment throughout, more particularly in the western Roman Empire, while in the eastern section it appears to have remained constant to this type until the time of Justinian. Even buildings erected by the Ostrogoths and Lombards in Italy retained essentially the fundamental Roman type. In the more recent architecture, however, of the Byzantine Empire several modifications made their appearance. A rotunda supported on four great piers forms the centre, to which different constructions were attached to meet the particular objects of Greek as distinct from the Roman ritual. We must not, however, confuse this genuine architecture of the Byzantine Empire with that which, in its general relation to architectural types, goes by the name of Byzantine, and which was employed in Italy, France, England, Germany, and other places up to the close of the twelfth century.

(_b_) In the thirteenth century was evolved the Gothic architecture in the distinctive form whose main characteristics I have above described in detail. It is nowadays denied that it is the work of Gothic architects, and the name given it is that of Deutsch or German architecture. We may, however, retain the more customary and ancient nomenclature. In other words we find in Spain very ancient indications of this type of construction, which suggest an association with historical circumstances under which Gothic kings, forced back into the mountains of Asturia and Galicia, retained their independence in such localities. Under such conditions, no doubt, a close affiliation of Gothic and _Arab_ architecture appears probable, yet both may be essentially distinguished. For the characteristic trait of Arab architecture in the Middle Ages is not the pointed arch, but the so-called _horseshoe_ form. Moreover, these buildings, which are constructed for an entirely different ritual, exhibit an Oriental wealth and splendour, embellishments resembling plant-life and other forms of decoration, which, in an external form, mix together what is of Roman ancestry and that which belongs to the Middle Ages.

(_c_) On parallel lines with this evolution of religious architecture we find, too, the course of _civil construction_, which from its

## particular point of view imitates and modifies the character of

ecclesiastical buildings. In an architecture directed to the uses of citizen life, however, art has less opportunity for display inasmuch as here objects of more restricted character, combined with a great variety of requirements, are more strict in the range of satisfaction presented, and do not suffer beauty to pass beyond mere decoration. Except for the general harmonious disposition of its forms and masses, art is in the main merely able to assert itself in the embellishment of façades, staircases, windows, doors, gables, towers, and the like, and has to do this throughout subject to the condition that the practical purpose of the building is what finally determines everything. In the Middle Ages it is pre-eminently the tower-like form of secure dwellings, which is the fundamental type of structure not merely for particular declivities and summits but also within the towns, where every palace, every private dwelling, as in Italy for example, received the form of a small fortification or keep. Walls, doors, towers, bridges and the like are executed as necessity dictates, and are decorated and embellished by art. Stability and security coupled with a grandiose type of splendour and a vital individuality of single forms and their connecting links constitute the determining factors, to enter into the detail of which would carry us beyond our present purpose. By way of supplement we may in conclusion briefly allude to the art of _gardening_, which does not only create under a wholly novel form an environment for spirit, we may call it a second exterior Nature, but draws the landscape of Nature itself within the operation of its constructive purpose and treats the same architectonically as an environment of buildings. I will only take as an example of what I mean the famous and exceedingly imposing terrace of Sans-souci.

In our examination of the genuine art of gardening it is most important to distinguish the _painter's_ point of view of it from that of the _architect._ All that pertains to mere park construction, for instance, is not truly architectonic, no building, that is, with freely disposed natural objects, but an artist's portrayal[109], which leaves the objects in their natural form and aims at imitating wide Nature in its freedom. Everything is here suggested in turn, which finds its glad place in a landscape--whether rocks and the huge rough masses which are their substance, or dales, woods, pastures, meandering brooks, broad streams with their animated banks, still lakes, wreathed round with trees, rushing waterfalls, and everything else of the kind, and is brought together with one total effect. In this way the gardening art of the Chinese embraces entire landscapes together with their islands, rivers, expanding views, and rockeries.

In a park of this kind, particularly in modern examples of such, everything is, on the one hand, intended to hold intact the freedom of Nature, while, on the other, it is artificially elaborated and constructed and conditioned by the locality where it is situated. This involves a contradiction which is never satisfactorily disposed of. In this respect, for the most part, it is impossible to instance an example of worse taste than such an attempt to make visible in all directions a studied purpose in that which is without purpose, and to force that which refuses to be compelled. Add to this the fact that here the genuine character of what is strictly a garden disappears, in so far, that is, as a garden is primarily adapted for strolling about in at pleasure and conversation within a certain place, which is no longer simply Nature, but a Nature remodelled by man to meet his desire for an environment created by himself. A huge park, on the contrary, particularly if it be garnished with Chinese temples, Turkish mosques, Swiss châlets, bridges, hermitages, and any other conceivable foreign importation, makes an independent claim on our interest as spectator. It offers an independent pretension of being and signifying something. A charm of this sort disappears as soon as it arises; we do not care to see it twice, for an addition like this spreads before our sight no suggestion of infinity, nothing that possesses a really existent vitality[110], and is further only wearisome and tedious for conversation as we pass through it.

A garden, strictly speaking, should be only a cheerful environment and simply an environment, which will not pass for something independently valid and withdraw men from their own life and concerns. It is here that architecture, with its scientific lines, order, regularity, and symmetry, is in its proper place and co-ordinates natural objects themselves architectonically. The art of the Mongols on the other side of the great wall, in Tibet, the paradise of the Persians, already adapt themselves more closely to this type. They are no parks in the English sense, but halls with flowers, springs, courts, and palaces, which have in the form of a retreat in Nature been arranged on a splendid, grandiose, and extravagant scale for the needs of mankind and their convenience. But we find the architectural principle most thoroughly carried out in the French art of gardening, which, as a rule, borders upon great palaces, plants trees in the strictest conformity of line in long avenues, prunes them, builds up straight walls from trimmed fences, and in this way converts Nature herself into a broad dwelling beneath the open sky.

[Footnote 34: Simply as a physical object.]

[Footnote 35: That of symbolic architecture.]

[Footnote 36: _Als Momente eines Subjektes._ That is as the constituent parts of the mind of one individual.]

[Footnote 37: Herod. I, _c._ 181.]

[Footnote 38: I, _c._ 98.]

[Footnote 39: I, p. 469.]

[Footnote 40: As in obelisks, Memnons, etc.]

[Footnote 41: II, _c._ 162.]

[Footnote 42: _c._ 106.]

[Footnote 43: Symb. (2nd ed.), p. 469. The solar city of Heliopolis.]

[Footnote 44: XXXVI, 14, and XXXVII, 8.]

[Footnote 45: Creutzer I, p. 778.]

[Footnote 46: "History of Architecture," vol. I, p. 69.]

[Footnote 47: _Wandungen._ I presume this refers to every kind of subdivision no less than boundary walls.]

[Footnote 48: _Pracktgewänden._ Presumably this refers to the isolated structures in which the columns are built--having flat surfaces like walls.]

[Footnote 49: _Balken._ The word would suggest perhaps that Hegel means here beams of any kind.]

[Footnote 50: II, _c._ 155.]

[Footnote 51: Her. II, _c._ 108.]

[Footnote 52: Herodotus dwells on this in the above passage.]

[Footnote 53: II, _c._ 148.]

[Footnote 54: Commentators of Herodotus point out that we have no direct evidence here of their number, which, comparing this with Strabo's account, is doubtful, and still more so the number of the chambers (οἱκήματα). Strabo says there were twenty-seven courts. The connection between the halls was not an architectural one but by means of the chambers and colonnades (παστάδες). See Blakesley's notes, vol. I, pp. 279-80. Neither from Herodotus nor Hegel is it very easy to form a clear notion of the building.]

[Footnote 55: "History of Ancient Building," vol. I, p. 75.]

[Footnote 56: XXXVI, 19.]

[Footnote 57: _Ein Individuelles._ Lit., An individual entity.]

[Footnote 58: The relative pronoun refers to the separation of both aspects.]

[Footnote 59: II, _c._ 126-7.]

[Footnote 60: Her. II, _c._ 125.]

[Footnote 61: _Geschichte der Baukunst der Alten_, I, S. 55.]

[Footnote 62: Symbolical significance.]

[Footnote 63: Wolff's and Buttmann's Mus., B. I, p. 536.]

[Footnote 64: Hegel uses the coined word _osirirt_ I presume in this sense.]

[Footnote 65: _Abstraction._ Abstract in the sense of possessing no ideal complexity.]

[Footnote 66: _Verständig._ Comes under the categories of the Understanding.]

[Footnote 67: Lit., "Find the element that is congenial."]

[Footnote 68: That is, the principle of geometrical design and that of organic structure.]

[Footnote 69: That is the beauty and the ulterior aim of utility.]

[Footnote 70: _Verständig._ See note above.]

[Footnote 71: The sphere of mechanical gravity.]

[Footnote 72: I presume _Aufwande_ means expense here; it would be more reasonable perhaps to say "waste of room," columns being only too often so much more expensive for their size.]

[Footnote 73: That is, the free treatment of line under scientific forms of abstraction rather than limited to specific modes of organic form in Nature.]

[Footnote 74: _Der Verständigen Gesetzmässigkeit._ The principle of scientific architecture.]

[Footnote 75: Immediate imitation, that is.]

[Footnote 76: Of classical art.]

[Footnote 77: _Symbol des Innern._]

[Footnote 78: That is, apart from the classical type.]

[Footnote 79: That is, the scientific reason of abstract principle or rule.]

[Footnote 80: _Weil beim Oblongum in der Gleichheit und Ungleichheit ist._ That is, more pleasure is derived from contrast than mere similarity. He then qualifies or explains the general principle.]

[Footnote 81: _Eurhythmie_, that is, eurhythmy or a rhythmic movement between the several parts.]

[Footnote 82: I presume this is the meaning of _die Theorie_ here. That is the purposeful motive of the architectural skeleton of the fabric--what explains it rationally.]

[Footnote 83: _Schiebens._ It is possible that Hegel uses the word in its primary sense of "shifting."]

[Footnote 84: The idea is slightly confused in the course of the sentence. It is not the necessity (_des Bedürfnisses_) to build a stable house which has to be held in position, etc., but the structure which that necessity forces men to construct in a certain way.]

[Footnote 85: _Ihre eigenen Momente._ "Its unique traits" is possibly adequate here.]

[Footnote 86: Hegel probably has in his mind when using the expression _verständig bestimmte_ the close analogy between the self-exclusive concreteness of reason and the completeness of the circular figure.]

[Footnote 87: It is not quite clear what Hegel means by the _Köpfen der Deckenbalken._ The technical word that corresponds to _Deckenbalken_ is "joists"; here, according to the words that follow, it would appear to mean either the last horizontal line of the architrave or the entire growth of the triglyph. As he uses the word _Zwischenraümen_ after we appear to be driven on the latter alternative. The frieze, of course, was the entire space between cornice and architrave, including both triglyphs and metopes.]

[Footnote 88: Called _femora._ They were divided by two gutters or drills. The triglyph slightly projected and united perpendicularly cornice and architrave.]

[Footnote 89: _Die Baukunst nach den Grunds. der Alten_, Berlin, 1808, S. III.]

[Footnote 90: He means that the distinct functions are not assigned to those features of the building to which they are naturally or most essentially related.]

[Footnote 91: Hirt, _Geschichte der Baukunst_, III, S. 14-18, and II, S. 151.]

[Footnote 92: He refers to the columns placed round.]

[Footnote 93: _Gesch. d. Bauk._ I, S. 251.]

[Footnote 94: By _sebstständig_ Hegel means apparently that there must be nothing in their external form that would divert attention from their essential character.]

[Footnote 95: _Auf dem Unterbau._ I presume this means generally that portion beneath the ground.]

[Footnote 96: I presume what is meant is that in one case the drills or grooves are hollowed in round shape and towards the base in square shape.]

[Footnote 97: What is precisely meant by the expression _durch prismatische Einschnitte_ I frankly do not know. The expression _Balken_ is evidently used to mark the association between the slabs of stone and beams or rafters.]

[Footnote 98: That is, the spaces between the lower part of the cornice and the uppermost slab of the entablature.]

[Footnote 99: The _coussinet_ is that part of the Ionic capital between the abacus and quarter round, which serves to form the volute. There are four volutes or spiral scrolls in the Ionic capital.]

[Footnote 100: The _mutule_ is the projecting block worked under the corona of the Doric cornice.]

[Footnote 101: Hirt, _Gesch. der Baukunst_, I, S. 254.]

[Footnote 102: This must, I think, refer to the main moulding of the architrave immediately resting on the column.]

[Footnote 103: Seneca, Ep. 90.]

[Footnote 104: Lit., "Is raised to infinitude."]

[Footnote 105: As it is, for example, by Greek capitals.]

[Footnote 106: Lit., "In its penetration into the most spiritual (_innerste_, ideal) particularity."]

[Footnote 107: _Sich verselbstständigen._ Hegel means that the main purpose of the exterior is expressed on the face of it.]

[Footnote 108: I presume the word _Durchbrechen_ is here used in its specific architectural sense.]

[Footnote 109: _Ein Malen._]

[Footnote 110: _Keine in sich seyende Seele._ I presume Hegel means that being an artificial fragment of Nature's landscape it lacks the infinite horizon and the living relation to the whole.]

SUBSECTION II

SCULPTURE

INTRODUCTION

Over against the inorganic nature of Spirit, in the form we find given it by art in architecture, Spirit opposes itself directly in the sense that the work of art receives and displays spirituality as its actual content. The necessity of this advance we have already adverted to. It underlies the notion of Mind, which differentiates itself under the twofold aspect of subjective self-substantive[111] existence and pure objectivity. In this latter form of externality the ideal substance, it is true, makes its appearance by virtue of the architectonic treatment; such, however, does not amount to a complete transfusion of the objective material, or a conversion of it into an entirely adequate expression of Spirit (Mind), such as suffers it, and only it, to appear. Consequently art withdraws itself from the inorganic realm, which architecture, under its yoke of the laws of gravity, has striven to bring nearer as a means of Spirit's expression, to that of the Ideal, which forthwith then independently asserts itself in its more lofty truth without this intermingling with what is inorganic. It is during this, return passage of Spirit to its own native realm[112] from out of the world of masses and material substance that we come across _sculpture._

The first stage, however, in this new sphere is, as yet, no withdrawal of mind into the completely _ideal_ world of subjective consciousness[113], so that the representation of what is of Spirit would require what is itself a purely ideal mode of expression. Rather Spirit grasps itself, in the first instance, only in so far as it is still expressed in _bodily_ shape, and therein possesses its homogeneous and determinate existence. The art which accepts for its content this attitude to the possessions of Spirit will consequently have, as its due function, to clothe spiritual individuality as a manifestation under _material_ conditions, and we may add, in what is actually material to the senses. For discourse and speech are also indications[114] which Spirit assumes under the form of externality, but they belong to a mode of objectivity, which, instead of possessing the attributes we attach to matter in its immediate and concrete sense, is merely as tone, motion, the undulation of an entire body and the rarified element, the atmosphere, a communication of such Spirit. What I call immediate corporeality, on the contrary, is the spatial mode of material substance such as stone, wood, metal, or clay, wholly spatial in all three dimensions. The form, however, which is adequate to Spirit is, as we have already seen, the unique bodily form which belongs to it; and it is through this that sculpture makes what is of Spirit actual in a whole which is subject to the spatial condition.

From this point of view sculpture stands on the same plane as _architecture_[115] to the extent, namely, that it gives form to the sensuous material as such, or what is material according its _spatial_ condition as matter. It is, however, to a like extent distinguishable from architecture by virtue of the fact that it does not work up the inorganic substance, as the opposite of Spirit, into an environment created by Spirit and endowed with its purpose in forms to which a purpose is attached which is exterior to it; rather it sets before us spirituality itself in the bodily shape which, from the standpoint of the notion, is adequate to Spirit and its individuality. In other words its efficient function and independent self-subsistency brings indivisibly before our sight both aspects, body and spirit, as one whole. The configuration of sculpture, therefore, breaks away from the specific function of architecture, which is to serve Spirit merely as an external Nature and environment, and assumes a really independent position. Despite, however, this separation the image of sculpture remains in essential relation to its environment. A statue or group, and yet more a relief, cannot be made without considering the place in which such a work of art is to be situated. One ought not first to complete a work of sculpture and then consider where it is likely to be put, but it should in the very conception of it be associated with a definite exterior world, and its spatial form and local position. In this respect sculpture retains a specific relation to the architectural aspect of space. For the primary object of statues is that of being temple images and being set up in the shrine of the sanctuary, just as in Christian churches painting supplies images for the altar, and Gothic architecture also attests a similar connection between works of sculpture and their local position. Temples and churches, however, are not the only place for statues, groups of statuary and reliefs. In a similar way halls, staircases, gardens, public squares, doors, single columns and arches of triumph receive an animation from the forms of sculpture; and every statue, even though placed in dissociation from such a wider environment, requires a pedestal of its own to mark its local position and base. And here we must conclude what we have to say as to the association of sculpture with or distinction from architecture.

If we further compare sculpture with the other arts we shall find that it is more especially _poetry_ and _painting_ which will engage our attention. Small statues no less than groups present to us the spiritual form in complete bodily shape, man, in short, as he exists. Sculpture therefore appears to possess the truest means of representing what is spiritual, whereas both painting and poetry have the contrary appearance of being more remote from Nature for the reason that painting makes use of the mere surface instead of the sensuous totality of the spatial condition, which a human form and all other natural things actually assume; speech, too, to a still less degree, expresses the reality of body, being merely able to transmit ideas of the same by means of tone.

However, the truth of the matter is precisely the reverse of this. For although the image of sculpture appears no doubt to possess from the start the natural form as it stands, it is just this externality of body and nature reproduced in gross material which is not the nature of Spirit as such. If we regard the essential character of it its peculiar existence is that expressed by means of speech, acts, and affairs which develop its ideal or soul-life, and disclose its true existence.

In this respect sculpture has to yield the place of honour and pre-eminently when contrasted with _poetry._ No doubt clarity of outline[116] is superior in the plastic arts, in which the bodily presence is placed before our sight, but poetry too can describe the exterior figure of a man, such as his hair, forehead, cheeks, size, dress, pose and so forth, though of course not with the precision and sufficiency of sculpture. What it loses, however, in this respect is made up by the imagination, which, moreover, does not require for the mere conception of an object such a fixed and definite outline, and before everything else brings before us man in his _action_, with all his motives, developments of fortune and circumstance, with all his emotions, discourses, everything that discovers the soul-life or throws light on external incidents. This sculpture is either wholly unable to do, or only in a very incomplete way for the reason that it neither can present to us the individual soul[117] in its particular inward life and passion, nor as poetry a sequence of expressed results, but only offer us the general characteristics of individuality, so far as the body expresses such, and whatever happens together in one

## particular moment of time, and this too in a state of repose without

the progressive action of real life. In these respects, too, it is inferior to painting. For the expression of spiritual life receives in painting an emphatically more defined accuracy and vitality by means of the colour given to the human face and its light and shadow, not merely in the sense in which it satisfies generally the material substance of nature, but pre-eminently in the way it expresses physiognomy and the phenomena of emotion. It is possible, therefore, at first to entertain the view that sculpture requires merely for its greater perfection to associate the further advantages of painting with that itself possesses in the spatial totality, and to regard it as a mere act of caprice that it has made up its mind to dispense with the palette of the painter, or, as indicating a poverty and incapacity of its execution, that it entirely restricts its effort to one aspect of reality, namely, that of the material form, and withdraws its attention from that, much as the silhouette and the engraving may be set down as mere makeshifts[118]. We are, however, not warranted in thus applying such a term as "caprice" to genuine art. The form such as it is in the object of sculpture, remains in fact merely an _abstract_ aspect of the concrete human bodily presence. Its presentments receive no variety from particularized colours and movements. This is, however, no defect due to accident, but a limitation of material and manner of presentment itself pre-supposed in the notion of art. For Art is a product of mind, and we may add of the more exalted and thoughtful mind. A work of this order claims as its object a content of this defined character, and consequently implies a mode of artistic realization which excludes other aspects. We have here a process similar to that observed in the different sciences where we find, for example, geometry exclusively adopts space as its object, jurisprudence law, philosophy the explication of the eternal Idea and its determinate existence and self-identity in the facts of experience, wherein each of the above mentioned sciences develops these objects by differentiation out of their differences, without one of them actually presenting to consciousness in its completeness that which we are accustomed in ordinary modes of thought to call concrete real existence.

Art then, as a creative informing activity of spiritual origination, proceeds step by step, and separates that which in the notion, in the nature of the thing, albeit not in its determinate existence, is separated. It retains such stages consequently in their self-exclusive finity, in order to elaborate them according to their distinct peculiarities. And what contributes to this notional distinction and exclusive separation in the spatial material substance, which constitutes the element of the plastic art is corporeality in its aspect of spatial totality and its abstract configuration, in other words bodily form simply, and the more detailed particularization of the same relatively to the variety of its _colorization._ We find at this first stage the art of sculpture so placed relatively to the human form, which it treats as a stereo-metric body, merely, that is, according to form which it possesses in the three spatial dimensions. The work of art, whose process is in and through the sensuous material, must no doubt have an existence for another[119], with which forthwith the particularization commences. The primary art, however, which is concerned with the human bodily form as an expression of spiritual life, only proceeds so far in this "being for another" to the point of its first, or rather the still universal mode of Nature's own existence, that is to the point of mere visibility and existence in light generally, without uniting with the same in its presentment the relation of the latter to darkness, in which that which is visible is

## particularized in its own medium[120] and becomes colour. And the art

occupying such a position is that of sculpture. For plastic art, which is unable as poetry to bring together the totality of the phenomenon in one equal element or world of idea, inevitably breaks up this totality[121].

For this reason we get on the one hand _objectivity_, which in so far as it is not the unique configuration of spirit, stands over against it as inorganic Nature. It is this relation of bare objectivity which converts architecture into a mere suggestive symbol, which does not possess its spiritual significance in itself. The point of extreme contrast to objectivity as such is _subjectivity_, that is the soul[122], emotional life in the entire range of all its particular movements, moods, passions, exterior and interior agitations and

## actions. Between these two we are confronted with the spiritual

individuality which no doubt has a definite structure, but which is not as yet deepened to the extent of the essential ideality of the individual soul; in which, instead of the full personal singularity, the substantive universality of Spirit and its objects and characteristic traits is the prevailing factor. In its generality it is not as yet absolutely withdrawn into its own exclusive domain to the point of purely spiritual unity; rather it comes before us as this midway point[123] still hailing from the objective side, that is the side of inorganic Nature, and consequently even carries as part of itself corporeality, as the particular form of existence appropriate to spirit, in the body that not merely is its own, but also discloses it. In this mode of externality, which no longer remains something simply opposed to what is ideal, spiritual individuality has now to be displayed, not, however, as living form, that is to say as corporeality continuously referred back to the point of unity implied in the singularity of spiritual life, but rather as form set forth and manifested in its external guise, into the mould of which Spirit has no doubt been poured, without, however, being from this outward bond of association, made visible in the sense that it is so when it withdraws into its own essential and ideal domain[124].

From the above observations the two points to which we have already drawn attention become more clear, namely, first, that sculpture makes use of the human form directly, which is the actual existence of spiritual life, instead of accepting a mode of expression which is symbolical with a view to promoting the spiritual import of modes of appearance that are merely _suggestive._ At the same time, secondly, it is content, as the manifestation of that mode of subjectivity which does not express emotion and the soul essentially unparticularized[125], with _form_ and _nothing more_, where the focus of subjectivity is dissipated[126]. This is also the reason why sculpture does not on the one hand present Spirit in action, in a series of movements, which both possess and testify to one aim nor in undertakings or exploits, wherein a certain character is made visible, but rather as persisting throughout in one objective way, and for this reason preeminently in the repose of form, the movement and grouping of which is merely a first and obvious commencement of action, not, however, in any sense a _complete_ presentment of the subjective life as agitated by all the conflicts that assail it whether within or without, or as its development is variously affected in contact with the external world. Consequently what we also miss in the figures of sculpture is precisely this revealed focus of the subjective life, the concentrated expression of soul as _soul_, namely, the glance of the eye, a fact upon which we shall have something further to say later. We miss it because such a figure presents to our sight Spirit embedded in corporeality, and Spirit, too, which has to show itself visible in the entire form. From another point of view an individuality, which is not as yet essentially separated into its component parts, that is, the object of sculpture, does not as yet require the painter's charm of colour as means to display it, a charm which is as capable of making visible, through the fine gradations and variety of its nuances, the entire wealth of particular traits of character, the absolute manifestation of spiritual presence, its ideal significance[127], as by means of the vital flash of the eye it will concentrate in a point all the vigour of the soul. Sculpture must not, in other words, accept a material which is not rendered necessary by its fundamental point of view. It only makes use of the spatial qualities of the human figure, not the colouring which depicts it. The figure of sculpture is in general of one colour, hewn from white not vari-coloured marble. And in the same way metals are used as the material of sculpture, this primitive substance, self-identical, essentially undifferentiated, a light in fluxion, if we may so express it, without the contrast and harmony of different colours[128]. The Greeks are indebted to their unrivalled artistic insight[129] for having grasped and firmly retained this point of view. No doubt we find, too, in Greek sculpture, to which we must for the main part confine ourselves, examples of coloured statuary; we must, however, take care in this respect to distinguish both the beginning and end of this art from that which is created at its culminating point.

In the same way we must discount that which is admitted by art in deference to traditional religion. We have already found it to be true in the classical type of art that it does not forthwith and immediately set forth the Ideal, in which its function is to discover its fundamental lines of definition, but in the first instance removes much that is inconsonant with it and foreign; it is the same case precisely with sculpture. It is forced to pass through many preliminary stages before it arrives at its perfection; and this initial process differs very considerably from its supreme attainment. The most ancient works of sculpture are of painted wood, as, for example, Egyptian idols; we find similar productions among the Greeks. We must, however, exclude such examples from genuine sculpture when the main point is to establish its fundamental notion. We are therefore in no way concerned to deny that there are many examples at hand of painted statues. It is, however, also a fact that the purer art-taste became, the more strongly "sculpture withdrew itself from a brilliancy of colour that was not really congenial, and with wise deliberation utilized, on the contrary, light and shadow in order to secure for the beholder's eye a greater softness, repose, clarity, and agreeableness[130]." As against the uniform colour of the bare marble we may no doubt not merely instance the numerous statues of bronze, but also in still stronger opposition the greatest and most excellent works, which, as in the case of the Zeus of Pheidias, were artificially coloured. But we are not here discussing absence of colour in such an extreme abstract sense. Moreover, ivory and gold are not primarily the use of colour as the painter employs it; and generally we may add that the various works of a definite art do not ever in fact retain fixedly their fundamental notion in so abstract and unyielding a way, inasmuch as they come into contact with the conditions of life subject to aims of all kinds; they are placed in different environments, and are thereby associated with circumstances of an external kind, which inevitably modify their real and essential type. In this way the images of sculpture are not unfrequently executed in rich material such as gold and ivory. They are placed on magnificent chairs or stand on pedestals which display all the extravagance and luxuriousness of art, or receive costly decorations, in order that the nation, when face to face with such splendid works, may likewise enjoy the sense of its power and wealth. And sculpture in particular, for the reason that it is essentially, taken by itself, a more abstract art, does not on all occasions hold fast to such exclusiveness, but, on the one hand, introduces incidentally much that is of a traditional, scholastic, or local character as a contribution from its history, while, on the other, it ministers to vital popular necessities. Active humanity demands for its diversion variety, and seeks in diverse directions for a stimulus to its vision and imagination. We may take as an analogous case the reading aloud of Greek tragedies, which also brings before us the work of art under its more abstract form. In the wider field of external existence we have still to add, to make a public performance, living actors, costume, stage scenery, dancing, and music. And in like manner, too, the sculptured figure is unable to dispense with much that is supplementary on its own stage of reality. We are, however, only concerned here with the genuine work of sculpture as such; external aspects such as those above adverted to must not be permitted to prevent us bringing before the mind the notion of our subject-matter in its most ideal and exclusive sense of definition.

Proceeding now to the more definite _heads of division_ in this section we may observe that sculpture constitutes the very centre of the _classical_ type of art to such a degree that we are unable to accept the symbolical, classical and romantic types as distinctions which affect throughout and form the basis of our division. Sculpture is the genuine art of the classical Ideal simply. It is quite true that sculpture has also its stages in which it is in the grasp of the _symbolical_ type, as in Egypt for example. But these are rather preliminary stages of its historical evolution, no genuine distinctions which essentially affect the art of sculpture when notionally considered, in so far, that is, as these exceptional examples, in the manner of their execution and the use that is made of them, rather belong to architecture than are strictly within the aim and purpose of sculpture. In a similar way, when we find the _romantic_ type thereby expressed, sculpture passes beyond its rightful sphere, and only receives with the qualified imitation of Greek sculpture its exclusively plastic type. We must therefore look about us for a principle of division of another character.

In agreement with what we have just stated we shall find that it is from the particular way in which the _classical Ideal_ means of sculpture acquires a form of reality that most fully expresses it that the focus of our present inquiry is derived. Before, however, we are in a position to make an advance in this evolution of the ideal figure of sculpture we must by way of introduction demonstrate what kind of _content_ and _form_ are pertinent to the point of view of sculpture regarded as a specific art, and the course it follows by virtue of both until the point is reached where the classical Ideal is fully unfolded in the human form permeated by spiritual life, and in its shape as subject to spatial condition. From another point of view the classical Ideal stands, and falls with an individuality which is unquestionably substantive, but also to an equal degree essentially particularized, so that sculpture does not accept for its content the Ideal of the human form in its _generality_, but the Ideal as _specifically defined_; and, by virtue of this fact, it is variously displayed under forms distinct from each other. Such distinctions partly originate in the conception and _representation_ simply, in part are due to the _material_ in which such is realized, and which further, according to the way it affects execution, introduces points of severation on its own account, to both of which finally, as the last ground of difference, the various stages are related in the _historical_ development of sculpture.

Having made these observations we will indicate the course of our inquiry as follows.

In the _first_ place we have merely to deal with the _general_ determinants of the essential _content_ and _form_, such as are deducible from the notion of sculpture.

_Secondly_, as a further step, we have to differentiate more closely the nature of the classical Ideal, in so far as it attains a determinate existence in its most artistic form.

_Thirdly_, and finally, we shall find that sculpture avails itself of various types of presentation and material, and expands to a world of productions, in which, either under one aspect or another, the symbolical or romantic types also definitely assert themselves, albeit it is the classical which constitutes the true point of centre between them in plastic art[131].

##