structing a scientific theory; for the sake of which observations are emphasized here, others minimized there, still others (no less factually observations) rejected as positive errors, all on behalf of the author's intuition. Nothing is more suggestive of the sculptor's process of modelling in clay. But in all of these cases alike, it seems that coming back means only that the course of imagination is resumed.

It is a persistent illusion-and no less an illusion because so necessary to the business of life-that we all live in the same world. The illusion is so persistent that even for the instructed it requires an effort of imagination to realize that an infant six months old in the same room with grown-ups cannot see what they see; or that what they see could not be seen by an Australian blackfellow suddenly set down among them. The ordinary modern living-room contains chairs in which we imagine persons to sit and this defines and forms what we see. Again rugs which we may imagine to be removed from the floor-as merely seen they might as well be built in. Glass bulbs which we imagine to become incandescent; a huge box, called a piano, which (strangely) we can imagine to give forth sweet sounds; and book-shelves displaying rows of rectangular patches in various colors which we imagine to be removable, and then to be capable of developments and transformations which our blackfellow would surely attribute to magic. It would be very interesting to get his impression as his eye falls upon the book-shelves. But no, I fear it would be very uninteresting; for what I suspect is that the book-shelves convey to him no impression whatever, just as they appear to convey little or no impression to the infant.

But what, then, of our own impression? The answer

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seems to be that our own impression of this apparently given and self-existent room is the last expression of an infinitely subtle and complex activity of imagination, coordinately logical and aesthetic, the motives and grounds of which we shall never finally bring to light. It is as distinctly an artistic product-expressing, if we go into the finer points of the character and quality of what we see and of what we refuse to see, the nature of our souls -as the work of any painter. And as for what is "given" as a basis for the activity of imagination—seen and not imagined-it seems that nothing is absolutely given. The given, the datum, resolves itself in the last analysis into a kind of formless something which is saved from being nothing only by a seemingly inert stubbornness. The room, the object of our formed impression, seems to be even less given than the angel which Michelangelo saw in the block of marble.

Croce puts this point neatly, if somewhat too summarily, when he disposes of the common idea that the difference between the artist and the plain man is a difference of skill or technique. This common idea Croce takes to be that, while all men see alike, only the artist knows how to express what he sees. Against this Croce points out that the superiority of the artist lies in what he sees; it is a difference not of technique but of vision. This difference we can all readily appreciate when it comes to the painting of a portrait, especially of one who is near to us. The painter's impression is awaited as a kind of possibly fateful revelation. But the point applies no less to the cook's humbler impression of the pound of butter and the four eggs in the refrigerator. The painter of still life might well see more than the cook; and yet the cook's impression

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is also an activity of the human spirit. She too is no merely passive photographic plate but, in Croce's words, a creator of life.

And since (as Croce himself insists) we are all artists, the advantages of superior vision will not lie exclusively with those who make art their profession. It is a too common vice of aesthetic philosophy to consult only the professional artist. The cook may conceivably see something in the butter and eggs which is hidden from the painter of still life; and the physician may see that in a man's face which the painter happily misses. The criminologist or the life-insurance agent may each see something else. And in the end what I would emphasize (as expressing my own idea, at least) is that every impression of the world is an individual impression. It is no doubt practically convenient to assume that we all live in the same world of fact, but it marks a lack of imagination if we believe it to be true. The machinist and the carpenter, the sailor and the miner, the railway-conductor and the salesman, the lawyer, the physician, and the clergyman, the zoologist, geologist, mathematician, or literary critic-no two of these lives in the same world of fact. Each of these worlds stands for a certain type of imagination; a certain point of view, unconsciously embodied in metaphor and trick of speech, for the determination of reality and of fact; and for the literary artist each contains, no less than the sailor's point of view, the potentiality of romance. But the profession is not yet the individual; and what is true of the class is truer still, and perhaps only then true, of the individual himself, and only so far as he is a conscious and genuine individual. Every thinking man's impression of the world is an artistic intuition. As a think

ing man he is not a mere recipient of impressions, but the artist and architect of a universe; or, once more, a creator of life.

And yet his impression of the world is knowledge of the world. How this may be, our imagination may not easily grasp. But we may appreciate the cognitive quality of our impressions, and at the same time the aesthetic quality of our cognitions, if from the world of "things", seemingly given once for all, we return to the more sociable and negotiable world of persons; where indeed the unity of the spirit, the identity of the moral, the aesthetic, and the logical, is most clearly in evidence. Suppose that some one asks me about Smith-say that he is considering Smith as a candidate for an important appointment. Since Smith's family and mine have always been neighbors I know all about Smith. But it will not answer his question to give him, however completely and accurately, a coldly impersonal record of the facts. Though the facts be important, such a restricted account may even arouse suspicion. And he is likely to interrupt me with something like, Yes, but what is your impression of Smith?

What he wants is not scientific fact but aesthetic ap'preciation-a task of another dimension. The facts are easy to convey; but my impression? If I have any intimate insight into the character of Smith my impression is bound to be complex and perhaps problematic. It will not suffice to use the customary slang and say, "Oh! firstclass" or "no good". And if I succeed in really conveying my impression it will mean that I have the art of a poet. But it will be no less a matter of art even to give that impression form to myself; that is, to form the impression. Yet my questioner in seeking my impression is not merely

curious about the quality of my taste; he is paying a compliment to my intelligence, to my capacity for knowledge. The facts about Smith he will take from any reasonably careful person, but for impressions he wishes to be assured of a discriminating insight. And that cognitive insight he expects to find in the expression of my taste.

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So much for the matter of impressions. And now we may perhaps see why for Croce history is a branch of art. For history in any worthy sense is not a chronicle of events but an insight into the life of persons. Even if we adopt the (to me repugnant) theory that history deals with movements and tendencies we have still to answer the question—if history is to bear any relation to human life -what was the movement or the tendency for those who lived within it? What was the twelfth century for those who lived in the twelfth century? What was Locke's essay for those living in the year 1690, or in 1700? Surely not a "dear old book", as it was for William James. But this insight is just the limit, in the mathematical sense, of all historical inquiry; even the limit defined, as by Royce, as the point just beyond any possible concrete attainment -as the number 2 lies ever beyond the sum of 1, 2, 4, etc. And scientific historical inquiry, however important as an accessory, will never quite yield it. A man may spend a lifetime reading the twelfth century, and the result may be only a card catalogue. Insight into the twelfth century—a grasp of that impression of the twelfth century of which the literature and events of the twelfth century are the corresponding expression-is reserved for imagination and for art. Historical criticism, literary criticism,