a sham, and he cannot impose upon us with his pretense. But once we
have accepted the artist's postulates, then we are prepared to follow
him in his conclusions. In the Homeric world, we shall not balk at the
intercourse between gods and men; in mediaeval painting and drama, we
shall accept miracle; in _Alice in Wonderland_, we shall accept
any dream-like enchantment. But we demand that the conclusions shall
follow from the premises, that the whole be consistent. We cannot
tolerate miracle in a realistic novel or drama, or glaring inaccuracy
of fact in a historical novel, because they are in contradiction to
the laws of reality tacitly assumed. The final demand which we make
of any work, of art is that it live. What can be made to live for us
may be beautiful to us. But nothing can draw our life into itself which
has not drawn the artist's, or which is untrue to its own inner logic.

One of the most life-creating elements of a work of art is imagery.
Everywhere in art the tendency exists for ideas to be filled out,
rendered concrete and vivid, through images. In looking at a painting
of a summer landscape, for example, we not only recognize the colors
as meaning sunlight, but actually experience them as warm; in looking
at a statue we not only recognize its surface as that of the body of
a woman, but we feel its softness and smoothness; which involves that
the ideas of sunlight and a human body, employed in interpreting the
sensations received from these works of art, are developed back into
the original mass of images from which they were derived. However,
although ideas are formed from images, they are not images,--as our
ordinary employment of them in recognizing objects attests. We may and
usually do, for example, recognize a mirror as smooth without
experiencing it as smooth--the image equivalent of the idea remains
latent. Our ordinary experience with objects is too hasty and too
intent on practical ends for images to develop. On the other hand, the