the main approach and determine for himself how far it departs from a horizontal line. Our eyes will soon come to demand such curved lines. Straight lines will soon seem hollow to us as they did to the Greeks. But, note the difference. We have come to our comprehension of such forms by literary, by archeological, by mensurational, steps, while it was a matter of feeling to the Greeks, or to their predecessors. Certain insights and sympathies of theirs have been atrophied in our ancestors. Can we say, then, that the appreciation of beauty is as keen with us as it once was to other peoples less 'progressive,' less 'advanced'?
Instantaneous photography has familiarized us with the various motions of the horse. The horses on the frieze of the Parthenon and in the paintings of the Renaissance are depicted in attitudes which are impossible. Because the horses of Mr. Frederick Remington's pictures are recognized by us to be true to life, does this show a greater sense of the beautiful? We have gained our new knowledge by photographic and scientific methods, but can we say that our aesthetic sense in this regard has become more refined? Is our analysis more subtle than the Greek synthesis?
We are all so used to the admission of the high sense of beauty of the Greeks that we consciously form our standards by what we suppose to have been theirs. We praise the classic purity of the Parthenon, not only the purity of its lines, but of its unbroken color—the native color of its marble. But in doing this we forget that the Greeks covered almost the entire surface of this pure marble with thick coats of color—parts with vivid blues and reds. A model of the Parthenon painted in its ancient colors seems crude to modern eyes. But are we to conclude that our sense of beauty of color is more keen and refined than that of the Greeks, our acknowledged masters? Is it true that the rains of centuries were needed to wash off colors carefully laid on by the builders so that it is only now, and to us, that the Parthenon finally emerges the one perfect building of the world?
As with Greek buildings so with Greek statuary. We are used to praise the classic purity of their white marble gods and goddesses, forgetting that the most famous statues were made of gold and ivory, enameled with images of animals and flowers, with metal bracelets and ornaments fixed to marble, or again painted in parts like the Hermes of Praxiteles or the Athene at Elis. The ears of the grave, serene and august Venus of Melos are pierced for metal ear-rings. To us she seems all-sufficing and stands alone. It is more than likely that the original statue formed a part of a group—Venus placating the wrath of Mars. Do we, in fact, at all comprehend what the Greeks meant to depict by their images of divinities? Would a Greek, returning to earth, in the least understand the interpretations of the æstheticians? Have we then progressed beyond the comprehension of the men who made these marvels? Is it permissible to take refuge in that
