Japanese artist may have intended human beauty where we do not
recognise it. But if it is not easy to recognise, it is certainly

not difficult to guess at. And, accordingly, you are generally
aware that the separate beauty of the race, and its separate

dignity, even - to be very generous - has been admired by the
Japanese artist, and is represented here and there occasionally, in

the figure of warrior or mousme. But even with this exception the
habit of Japanese figure-drawing is evidentlygrotesque, derisive,

and crooked. It is curious to observe that the search for slight
deformity is so constant as to make use, for its purposes, not of

action only, but of perspective foreshortening. With us it is to
the youngest child only that there would appear to be mirth in the

drawing of a man who, stooping violently" target="_blank" title="ad.强暴地；猛烈地">violently forward, would seem to have
his head "beneath his shoulders." The European child would not see

fun in the living man so presented, but - unused to the same effect
"in the flat" - he thinks it prodigiously humorous in a drawing.

But so only when he is quite young. The Japanese keeps, apparently,
his sense of this kind of humour. It amuses him, but not perhaps

altogether as it amuses the child, that the foreshortened figure
should, in drawing and to the unpractised eye, seem distorted and

dislocated; the simple Oriental appears to find more derision in it
than the simple child. The distortion is not without a suggestion

of ignominy. And, moreover, the Japanese shows derision, but not
precisely scorn. He does not hold himself superior to his hideous

models. He makes free with them on equal terms. He is familiar
with them.

And if this is the conviction gathered from ordinary drawings, no
need to insist upon the ignoblecharacter of those that are

intentional caricatures.
Perhaps the time has hardly come for writing anew the praises of

symmetry. The world knows too much of the abuse of Greek
decoration, and would be glad to forget it, with the intention of

learning that art afresh in a future age and of seeing it then anew.
But whatever may be the phases of the arts, there is the abiding

principle of symmetry in the body of man, that goes erect, like an
upright soul. Its balance is equal. Exterior human symmetry is

surely a curious physiological fact where there is no symmetry
interiorly. For the centres of life and movement within the body

are placed with Oriental inequality. Man is Greek without and
Japanese within. But the absolute symmetry of the skeleton and of

the beauty and life that cover it is accurately a principle. It
controls, but not tyrannously, all the life of human action.

Attitude and motiondisturbperpetually, with infinite incidents -
inequalities of work, war, and pastime, inequalities of sleep - the

symmetry of man. Only in death and "at attention" is that symmetry
complete in attitude. Nevertheless, it rules the dance and the

battle, and its rhythm is not to be destroyed. All the more because
this hand holds the goad and that the harrow, this the shield and

that the sword, because this hand rocks the cradle and that caresses
the unequal heads of children, is this rhythm the law; and grace and

strength are inflections thereof. All human movement is a variation
upon symmetry, and without symmetry it would not be variation; it

would be lawless, fortuitous, and as dull and broadcast as lawless
art. The order of inflection that is not infraction has been

explained in a most authoritativesentence of criticism of
literature, a sentence that should save the world the trouble of

some of its futile, violent, and weak experiments: "Law, the
rectitude of humanity," says Mr Coventry Patmore, "should be the

poet's only subject, as, from time immemorial, it has been the
subject of true art, though many a true artist has done the Muse's

will and knew it not. As all the music of verse arises, not from
infraction but from inflection of the law of the set metre; so the

greatest poets have been those the MODULUS of whose verse has been
most variously and delicately inflected, in correspondence with

feelings and passions which are the inflections of moral law in
their theme. Law puts a strain upon feeling, and feeling responds

with a strain upon law. Furthermore, Aristotle says that the
quality of poetic language is a continual SLIGHT novelty. In the

highest poetry, like that of Milton, these three modes of
inflection, metrical, linguistical, and moral, all chime together in

praise of the truer order of life."
And like that order is the order of the figure of man, an order most

beautiful and most secure when it is put to the proof. That
perpetual proof by perpetual inflection is the very condition of

life. Symmetry is a profound, if disregarded because perpetually
inflected, condition of human life.

The nimble art of Japan is unessential; it may come and go, may
settle or be fanned away. It has life and it is not without law; it

has an obvious life, and a less obvious law. But with Greece abides
the obvious law and the less obvious life: symmetry as apparent as

the symmetry of the form of man, and life occult like his unequal
heart. And this seems to be the nobler and the more perdurable

relation.
THE ILLUSION OF HISTORIC TIME

He who has survived his childhoodintelligently must become
conscious of something more than a change in his sense of the

present and in his apprehension of the future. He must be aware of
no less a thing than the destruction of the past. Its events and

empires stand where they did, and the mere relation of time is as it
was. But that which has fallen together, has fallen in, has fallen

close, and lies in a little heap, is the past itself - time - the
fact of antiquity.

He has grown into a smaller world as he has grown older. There are
no more extremities. Recorded time has no more terrors. The unit

of measure which he holds in his hand has become in his eyes a thing
of paltry length. The discovery draws in the annals of mankind. He

had thought them to be wide.
For a man has nothing whereby to order and place the floods, the

states, the conquests, and the temples of the past, except only the
measure which he holds. Call that measure a space of ten years.

His first ten years had given him the illusion of a most august
scale and measure. It was then that he conceived Antiquity. But

now! Is it to a decade of ten such little years as these now in his
hand - ten of his mature years - that men give the dignity of a

century? They call it an age; but what if life shows now so small
that the word age has lost its gravity?

In fact, when a child begins to know that there is a past, he has a
most noble rod to measure it by - he has his own ten years. He

attributes an overwhelmingmajesty to all recorded time. He confers
distance. He, and he alone, bestows mystery. Remoteness is his.

He creates more than mortal centuries. He sends armies fighting
into the extremities of the past. He assigns the Parthenon to a

hill of ages, and the temples of Upper Egypt to sidereal time.
If there were no child, there would be nothing old. He, having

conceived old time, communicates a remembrance at least of the
mystery to the mind of the man. The man perceives at last all the

illusion, but he cannot forget what was his conviction when he was a
child. He had once a persuasion of Antiquity. And this is not for

nothing. The enormous undeception that comes upon him still leaves
spaces in his mind.

But the undeception is rude work. The man receives successive
shocks. It is as though one strained level eyes towards the

horizon, and then were bidden to shorten his sight and to close his
search within a poor half acre before his face. Now, it is that he

suddenly perceives the hithertoremote, remote youth of his own
parents to have been something familiarly near, so measured by his

new standard; again, it is the coming of Attila that is displaced.
Those ten last years of his have corrected the world. There needs

no other rod than that ten years' rod to chastise all the
imaginations of the spirit of man. It makes history skip.

To have lived through any appreciable part of any century is to hold
thenceforth a mere century cheap enough. But, it may be said, the

mystery of change remains. Nay, it does not. Change that trudges
through our own world - our contemporary world - is not very

mysterious. We perceive its pace; it is a jog-trot. Even so, we
now consider, jolted the changes of the past, with the same hurry.

The man, therefore, who has intelligently ceased to be a child scans
through a shortened avenue the reaches of the past. He marvels that